


Desensitized

by Teravolt



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dissociation, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I promise it actually has a happy ending, I'm sorry for how dark this is, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pidge has been though a lot, like a whole lot, platonic shidge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2018-12-23 22:18:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teravolt/pseuds/Teravolt
Summary: “You said that nothing really shocks you anymore,” Shiro reiterates. “Why do you think that is?”The less time it takes her to respond, Pidge thinks, the less awkward the reply. “Guess shock just doesn’t register with your system after a certain point.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Come and scream with me on tumblr.  @Teravoltron 

Muted colors. Fluorescent lights, flickering like tired eyes. The footsteps of one on yellowed, crumbling tile, muffled somehow by the very silence they endeavor to break. Countless corridors, devoid of life and lined with outdated cans instead of beds, lure her through them on the same pointless journey she’s walked a thousand times. A search for answers that no living being could ever give. Answers she’s chased through the whitewashed hallways of her nightmares and well into the early light of dawn, where she’s woken with sweat on her forehead and the chill of loneliness having settled deep into her bones.

Innumerable similarities. Endless familiarity.

The cool, soothing feeling of glass in her hand. The soft clink of the bottle colliding with others of its kind as she pulls it from its home among them, nearly identical to the pitiful _plink, plink_ of winged insects desperately throwing their tiny bodies against the failing light fixtures above. The bottle is a pleasant weight in her hand, and she gazes at it almost reverently, in the same way a child regards its mother or a dog its master. She stares at it the way a religious woman might stare into the face of God, struck by the power held within. Not the power to save or to heal, but to forget, if just for a little while. Which, in her eyes, is just as good.

Shoving away a pang of guilt that threatens her line of reasoning, she pulls herself from the lonely corner of the shop on legs weighted by a thousand regrets. Her grip on the bottle, on her only escape from reality, temporary as it is, tightens as she makes her way to the counter. The journey there feels as though it lasts a century. One hundred years, thirty-seven steps. She counts them because it passes the time—a feeble attempt at a distraction as the last hour of sobriety ticks away. Ever so slowly.

She places the bottle on the counter. Beside it, her ID. She catches a glimpse of the girl in the photo. A girl with a smile and a different name. A girl with no regrets, no worries, and not an inkling of the bitterness and despair that the future has in store for her. A naïve, beautiful girl who died too young, leaving behind a pathetic shell of a human being whose only goal for the night is to surrender herself to the bottle before her.

Tearing her eyes from the photo, she instead turns her gaze upward. The glare of the buzzing fluorescent light fragments itself among a myriad of dots and flecks with which her lashes have painted the lenses of her glasses, their medium an endless supply of tears that ebbs and flows like the tides of the ocean. She loses herself in the scattered points of light, another distraction, another subconsciously-executed technique of self-preservation. She finds patterns where there are none, invents constellations and gives them names that she won’t remember in the morning. If she’s lucky, she won’t even remember her own.

“ _Katie?_ ” The absolute scorn with which the name is suddenly uttered nearly convinces her that it has come from her own lips. The shock of hearing it is enough to pull her attention from the lights above, and her gaze settles on the store clerk behind the counter, truly seeing him for the first time. A pimply teenager with greasy hair and an overall unpleasant air about him holds her ID in one hand, narrowed eyes flicking back and forth between the dead girl in the photo and the barely-living one across the counter. “You don’t look like a Katie.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time my birth certificate is filled out,” she replies dryly, not an ounce of humor present in her voice or her expression. The clerk scowls at her, scrutinizing, continuing the doubtful back and forth between her face and the hunk of plastic in his hand.

“This isn’t you,” he declares with finality. “Nice try, kid, but I’m not stupid and I’m definitely not selling booze to some bratty minor. Get out now and I won’t call the cops.” A greasy sneer reveals teeth yellowed by poor habits, hygiene or both, and as he speaks, he moves the bottle she’s presented him with behind the counter and out of her reach.

“It is me,” she protests, an edge of panic tainting her voice with ugly hysteria when the bottle, her salvation, leaves her line of sight. “I cut my hair. And I’m not a minor. I’ll show you.” She thrusts out an expectant hand, ready to point out her birth date as proof that she’s legally entitled to drown herself in alcohol, taking her misery with her into the hazy depths of intoxication.

Unmoved, the clerk rolls his eyes. “I warned you already, didn’t I? There’s no way I’m giving this back—you’ll just try the same thing elsewhere. Get out.”

Irritation blooms within her chest, a vivid, poisonous flower. Through clenched teeth, she makes a demand. “Give it back. Now.”

Her mounting rage is met only by condescending laughter and a gust of foul-smelling breath, a bi-product of this cruel stranger’s evident amusement and poor hygiene. But the start of another verbal denial is silenced in an instant as she slams both palms down against the flat marble surface of the counter. The impact cuts through the hush of the deserted shop, a shotgun blast within the walls of a church. And though the action serves its purpose, it is no more than a precursor to the hail of bullets that follows.

“You… What right do you have?” Her tone is dark, unsettling—like black clouds weighted down with acid rain. In the next instant, a flash of lightning in her eyes brings forth a vicious thunderclap, a wave of unbridled anger that rocks through her with the intensity of a hurricane. “ _What right do you have?!”_ Her nails dig crescents into her palms atop the frigid marble, the pain only fueling the fire that has ignited within her. “You think you’re so high and mighty? Are you so unbelievably full of yourself that you think common sense doesn’t apply to you? That you can make decisions for other people without taking half a second to use that dusty, cobweb-infested hunk of deteriorating organic matter bouncing around inside your skull to figure out that it’s not your place?”

The sight of clerk recoiling, startled by her sudden outburst, is minutely satisfying to watch. He opens his mouth to protest, but the unwavering fury in her eyes seems to steal his words away, and it takes him a solid moment to compose himself, to brush aside the look of undeniable hatred. “You’re just a kid,” he says finally, gathering himself and squaring his shoulders. “What reason could you possibly have for wanting to buy this?” Confidence returning to his stained smile, he leans casually against the counter and regards her with mirth behind his eyes. She can hear the sound of the bottle scraping against the ruined tile as he nudges it with the toe of his shoe in askance. “Trying to be edgy? Impress your little friends? I’ll bet they’re waiting for you outside. Pathetic.”

The only sounds keeping the silence at bay are the electrical buzz of the fluorescent lights and the futile impact of moth bodies against them. When she speaks, her voice is soft, matter-of-fact. And yet, exponentially more terrifying than if it wasn’t. “There’s no one waiting for me,” she murmurs, and if not for the stone cold void of her gaze boring into his, the sound would be almost pitiable. “Do you know why that is?” Unconcerned with any response he could possibly have to offer, she continues in the same breath, her tone lacking any sort of inflection, her eyes empty and hollow. “Three months ago to this day, I became one of those lucky people you hear about on the news. The ones who find their father’s body lying in a pool of blood with a gun in his hand and the evidence spattered all over the carpet. Even better, that was only two weeks after I watched a funeral procession lower my only sibling into the ground in a casket that the coroner said would be better left closed.” She takes a step forward. “So to answer your question, I have a damn good reason for wanting to drown my memories of these past few months in booze that _you_ are going to sell to me, an adult who can make her own decisions without some acne-ridden teenage greaseball patronizing her for it.”

Another long bout of silence. Even the moths seem to have given up—or perhaps a thousand violent impacts have done their damage and the creatures have fluttered into stillness. Her fists are clenched, knuckles white with the force of it, bitten nails carving fresh wounds into soft palms.

“I don’t believe you.” The statement accompanies a chuckle and the world blurs around her. In the next second, her fingers find purchase in the fabric of the uniform he wears, the blood beneath her nails adding ranks to the collection of stains adorning it. Vaguely, she’s aware of a harsh insult spilling from her lips, shattering the quiet of the night at the same time that she draws back a fist in preparation of granting his nose the same courtesy.

A hand, firm yet gentle, somehow, catches her by the elbow before she can make good on the unspoken promise. She tugs once, a halfhearted attempt toward freedom as vain as it is feeble, before turning a tear-blurred gaze to the man holding her back. She hadn’t heard him approach.

As though sensing the sudden exhaustion that loosens the tension in her arm, the stranger lets her go and turns to the clerk, who wears a look of abject terror, concern for his personal wellbeing.

“I can see her ID from here,” the newcomer states in a casual tone that doesn’t match the darkness of his gaze. “She’s got about three years on you, so stop wasting everyone’s time and sell her what she came for.” There’s a certain note to the command that leaves no room for argument. An implication of ‘or else’ that, although not spoken aloud, stands between him and the now-complacent clerk, who pulls the bottle from beneath the counter under the influence of the tacit threat.

Presented with a total, she tosses a few crumpled bills onto the counter and takes the bottle without waiting for her change. The feeling of the glass is soothing against the tiny, stinging moons that anger has dug into her palms. With each step toward the groaning automatic doors, the ever-shifting weight of the bottle promises numbness in whispers, swears to let her forget.

As the doors creak into a yawn to let her pass, she casts a glance over her shoulder to see the clerk wordlessly retrieving a carton of cigarettes at the request of a man to whom she somehow feels she owes something. If not for putting an end to her frustration, then for stopping her from gouging yet another regret into the tally-board of wounds crisscrossing her heart. Even so, she doesn’t stay. She follows the cracked and yellowed tile into the gaping maw of the automatic doors, hears them groan shut behind her as the damp chill of the night raises goosebumps on her skin.

The scents of wet pavement and car exhaust surround her like a blanket, an unlikely comfort and painful reminder rolled into one, and she pauses to take them in. Lifting her chin, she watches the breeze push thin wisps of cloud in front of the moon, obscuring it from view as though shielding it from having to look down on such a pitiful, broken human. The thought draws a soft, empty laugh from somewhere within her. How tragic.

“You know,” a newly-familiar voice murmurs, and she can’t bring herself to be surprised that she didn’t hear the doors open again, loud as they are. She doesn’t notice much these days without significant prompting. “I won’t tell you how to cope—I have no right. But putting a band-aid over a bullet hole isn’t going to stop you from bleeding.”

Dragging her gaze from the sky, she turns to stare at him with something like doubt twisting her expression, but the look dissolves into nothingness when she meets his eyes. They’re kind, yet sad somehow. Melancholy. The color of steel.

“It’ll help for a while,” he elaborates, the corners of his mouth turned up in the faintest hint of a smile. She wants to resent the look he gives her, but she can’t find it within herself to do so. It’s not a look of sympathy like the ones she’s come to loathe, but rather, of understanding. “But you can’t numb the heart. Only the brain. And when you come to your senses and the bottle’s empty, you’re only going to hurt again.”

“What do you know?” It comes out bitter, but there isn’t nearly as much bite to it as she intends. Her eyes fall to the bottle in her hands for lack of a better destination. She doesn’t want to look into his face, doesn’t want him to see how damaged she really is.

“A thing or two,” he replies, eyes crinkling at the corners ever so slightly as his smile broadens and he chuckles. “Maybe not enough to make a difference, but still enough to try.” When she doesn’t respond, he closes the distance between them and, with a gentle hand, takes the bottle from her grasp. She’s not sure what shocks her more—the bold action on his part or the simple, undeniable fact that she doesn’t resist.

“There are other means,” he tells her as her empty fists clench at her sides. “Means of coping, of living. They aren’t the easiest to learn, but they’re more effective than getting black-out drunk to forget worries that will only resurface with a vengeance when the sun comes up.”

When, again, she doesn’t reply, he takes it as a cue to continue speaking and fills the silence with an offer. “The night isn’t over,” he points out. “Let me take you to dinner, make something positive of what’s left of it. If I can’t manage that, then…” He trails off, then gestures with the bottle in his hand. “I’ll give this back, and we’ll go our separate ways. Forget that any of this ever happened.”

Once, twice, her focus shifts between the bottle and his shoulder, not quite bold enough to meet his eyes. Out of the two options before her: drinking herself into oblivion alone or going off with a strange man she met in the checkout of a shoddy convenience store, she can’t decide which is the more irresponsible action. But she can feel the warmth of his gaze, the gentleness of his presence, and she dares to acknowledge, somewhere in the deepest recesses of her being, that he reminds her of someone. Someone precious. Someone no longer of this world. And before she knows it, she’s nodding.

“Good.” Even without looking at his face, she can sense his smile. It’s kind, like his eyes, and accompanied by a sudden, sheepish laugh. “I guess I should introduce myself, then. My name’s Shiro. You’re… Katie, right?”

Putting a name to this new face, this stranger abnormally intent on helping the unhelpable, of healing the mortally wounded, sets her decision in stone. With a sigh drawn from the soles of her feet, she stuffs her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt.

“Pidge.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come support/scream with me on Tumblr. [@Teravoltron](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/teravoltron)

Dinner ends up turning into a late-night breakfast at an IHOP a couple of blocks down the road, and the atmospheric whiplash is jarring to say the very least. Ruined tile floors, yellow with age and neglect, have given way to patterned carpets and walls that don’t look to be in danger of crumbling at any given moment. Built-in light fixtures on slow-spinning ceiling fans give off a warm and homey glow, a far cry from the unending flicker of bare fluorescent bulbs.

The two of them take a seat across from one another at an empty table pre-set with neatly-wrapped bundles of silverware and menus detailing specials with accompanying photos. When a waitress—her nametag reads _Angeline_ —brings them a pot of coffee, Pidge pounces on it, indifferent of the massive analogue clock judging her from its perch on the wall a few yards away. It’s 11:47 PM.

Shiro fills his own coffee cup when Pidge relinquishes the pot, but he makes no move to drink from it, instead watching with poorly-concealed amusement as Pidge unloads a grand total of six hazelnut creamers into her coffee. She catches him staring after the fourth and frowns as she rips the top off the fifth, effectively spilling half of it onto the glossy tabletop.

“What?”

Shiro snatches up his menu and makes a show of skimming it in a lame attempt at hiding both his guilt and his grin. When Pidge scowls, he drops the act and the menu and coughs to cover up a chuckle. “Nothing, really. I guess I just didn’t expect someone with a fondness for straight vodka to doctor their coffee beyond recognition.”

“I’d be putting the vodka in it if you’d let me.” Pidge pointedly dumps the contents of yet another creamer pod into her drink. The cup brims so full that stirring it is out of the question. “Judge not lest ye be judged. I’m assuming you take yours black?”

“Like my soul,” Shiro volunteers, and takes a long drag from the cup in his hand.

“Figures.”

They fall back into silence. Shiro eventually drops his gaze back to his menu and Pidge, for the first time in her life, finds herself wishing it possible to express gratitude to a laminated collection of pages. It isn’t that she’s unappreciative, but rather that she has no idea why she’s here—why she accepted this invitation, why she walked five blocks with an utter stranger in the middle of the night with nothing but good faith to go on in terms of Shiro not turning out to be a serial killer. There’s no logic behind it, no common sense. And in all honesty, there is nothing keeping her here save the strange and absolutely irrational sense of obligation she’s found herself harboring toward this man.

Pidge lets her gaze wander, allows a familiar, almost dissociative haze to fog up the corners of her mind and cloak her from the innumerable hostilities that lurk therein. The muted babble of the restaurant’s other late-night patrons reminds Pidge of nights that have gone the way she intended for this one to, reminiscent of the drone of a TV through alcoholic cotton stuffing her ears.

Off to the left, in one of the booths that line the wall behind Shiro, sits a lone woman in a short black dress. Pidge immediately likens her to a “Jacqueline” for no other reason than that it seems fitting, somehow. Jacqueline has lips the color of red wine and faint mascara tracks down her cheeks as though she couldn’t quite be bothered to wash them off completely. Pidge wonders what she’s been crying about.

Shiro seems to catch her staring, because he glances behind him at the woman before returning once again to his menu. He makes no comment, about Jacqueline or anything else, for which Pidge is silently thankful.

Somewhere to Pidge’s right, a baby begins to wail. The soft shushing of its mother, nearly drowned out by the clink of forks and oblivious chatter of strangers, does little to sooth its screeching. How funny, Pidge thinks of the infant’s unabashed screams and Jacqueline’s poorly-concealed distress, that their understanding of sadness is so different, so many worlds away from one another—worlds away from even her own—and yet their expression of it is identical.

“And for you, sweetheart?” Angeline’s voice snaps Pidge back to reality like a splash of frigid water, the waitress’s expectant stare seeping into her bones. It’s a good minute before Pidge figures out that Angeline is waiting for her to order, and she realizes belatedly that she hasn’t even picked up her menu.

“Uh. Sorry.” Pidge shakes her head and flips the menu open to a random page. “You go first,” she prompts, glancing with moderate desperation up at Shiro and then back to the laminated pictures of pancakes and waffles.

Shiro’s grin is mildly uncomfortable, apologetic. “Already did.” Funny—she hadn’t heard him.

Angeline is still standing there, somewhat awkwardly, pen at the ready. “I can come back in a few minutes if you’re not—”

“No, just a second.” Pidge cuts her off a bit too forcefully, then mutters a curse that probably comes out louder than intended, judging by the way Shiro chuckles across the table. After about thirty eternally-long seconds of skimming, she finally points something out without actually speaking. Angeline has to lean in a bit to tell what she’s supposed to write down, but thankfully gets it without Pidge having to clarify. Once she’s finished with her notes, Angeline says something about getting them another pot of coffee and disappears like some sort of apron-clad ghost.

“So—”

“You didn’t have to do this,” Pidge murmurs, her gaze fixed on the way her coffee ripples along with the nervous bouncing of her leg beneath the table. “Bringing me here, I mean.”

“I know.”

The response is so simple and nonchalant that it makes Pidge look up, brow furrowed. Shiro’s elbows are on the table, his body language showing that he’s every bit as relaxed as Pidge _isn’t._ “It’s not a matter of _having_ to,” he continues. “I just try to get in at least one good deed a month. Makes me feel like a man.”

Pidge stiffens. “I’m not some damn charity case,” she hisses, and her harsh tone draws concerned stares from nearby tables. Shiro sighs.

“That was a joke.”

Oh.

Embarrassed, Pidge busies herself with tearing tiny chunks off the napkin cocooning her silverware. The silence is an awkward one, one that she’s just as afraid to break as she is to leave alone.

“Look,” Shiro breathes as he sets down his newly-empty coffee cup. “The only reason we’re here is because you looked like you could use a distraction.”

“I was buying a distraction,” Pidge mutters.

“This is a healthier one,” Shiro replies evenly. Pidge can feel his gaze boring a hole in her head, judging her, and his matter-of-fact conclusion has her bristling all over again.

“And why do you get to decide what’s healthy for me? What are you, some kind of doctor?” She’s struggling to keep her voice down, fighting with the part of her that wants to burst into tears and scream and break things. It’s a coping mechanism, a bad habit of finding calm among chaos. It’s the next best thing to drinking herself into darkness, but somehow less socially acceptable.

“I’m not deciding anything,” Shiro remarks, and Pidge thinks he looks far less tired than he should of dealing with her. Most people would be fed up by now, would give up on the hopeless shell of a girl who can’t even keep it together long enough to make it through a simple meal. “I only extended the invitation—you’re the one who accepted.” He gives a lopsided smile, and Pidge deflates. For a stranger, Shiro is damn difficult to stay mad at.

The fight leaves Pidge as quickly as it found her, and she sinks lower in her chair. Her napkin is a shredded mess now, as much a victim of her anxiety as she is, bits of it scattered atop the table and littering the carpet. Some cling to her pants like flakes of unmeltable snow.

“Sorry for yelling,” she mumbles, studying the natural lines and swirls of the wooden tabletop. She doesn’t look up at Shiro, irrationally afraid that, despite everything, his expression will be one of anger or disgust.

“Don’t apologize,” he says instead. “It seems to me like you have a lot to want to yell about.”

He’s right, but Pidge doesn’t want to tell him so. Her gaze eventually migrates from the table to just over Shiro’s shoulder, actively avoiding his face.

Jacqueline, she notes, has been recently joined by a man with neatly-combed hair and an amicable smile. Off to the side sits a bouquet of roses he’s brought with him, ones that Jacqueline doesn’t seem to want anything to do with. The man, to whom Pidge silently assigns the name “Joe,” doesn’t appear to notice Jacqueline’s distress or the tear tracks inked in black down her cheeks. Or perhaps he does and is simply choosing to ignore them, filling Jacqueline’s stony silence with every word he can think of just for the sake of avoiding a lull. In fact, the longer Pidge watches, the more wholly convinced she becomes that that is exactly what he’s doing. There’s a pained look in his eyes, barely hidden beneath his mask of feigned excitement. It’s clear to Pidge that he knows something is coming, that he’s recognized the misery in his partner’s eyes. And from the look of his own, it’s no secret that he also knows he can’t keep the storm at bay forever.

“Here we go.” Angeline seems to have knack for scaring the life out of people considering that Pidge literally never hears her until she’s a foot away. Shiro catches the way Pidge practically jumps out of her skin and covers his mouth to stifle a laugh as Angeline sets down a new pot of coffee. “Your meals will be out soon,” she assures them with a smile, and then she’s gone again.

“Does she even make noise when she walks?” Pidge asks bitterly. She begins plucking the rest of the hazelnut creamers out of their bowl of coffee provisions in preparation for pouring herself a new cup.

“She does,” Shiro confirms. “You just aren’t paying—” There are only two hazelnut creamers left in the bowl, a problem that Pidge solves by shamelessly snagging several more from the empty table behind her. Shiro, through some miracle of God himself, maintains a flawless poker face the entire time. “—attention.”

“S’not my fault the people behind you are basically a real-life soap opera,” Pidge defends. She casually refills her cup and begins dumping in her stash of creamer pods, one by one until she achieves an approximate 1:1 coffee-to-creamer ratio. The contents of the cup are about the same shade of pale as her skin.

“Would you like some coffee with your creamer?” Shiro ventures, and snorts when Pidge throws an empty pod at him. It bounces off his chest and lands uselessly on the table.

Out of nowhere, an explosive shout cuts through the drone of chattering strangers like a gunshot piercing the sacred hush of a cemetery. Absolute silence follows, not even the background clinking of silverware present to disrupt it, as heads turn toward the source of the outburst.

The hush lasts but a moment.

A moment at the end of which a barrage of insults flies, a volley of poisonous arrows, from the mouth of a man who once wore a friendly smile to mask his knowledge of the inevitable, to hide the slowly-widening fissures in his heart. Stunned patrons watch as Joe lets loose his rage and anguish upon the woman across from him, who hangs her head and takes the brunt of the verbal assault willingly, as though she wholeheartedly believes it is what she deserves.

Before an audience of total strangers, he lays bare her transgressions amid a maelstrom of cruelties, curses and tears.

Cheater. Liar. Heartless. Whore.

His unkind words paint her portrait in blood on the wall, an effigy to be burned to the ground by the prying eyes and judgmental stares of those around them. Not once does she speak up for herself. Not once does she lift her head.

And then he’s gone, storming away and leaving behind a broken woman and an untouched bouquet of roses, both a cruelty unto her and a kindness unto himself. A reminder of the very moment two people wholly destroyed one another, left to wilt upon a wooden tabletop. Pidge watches Jacqueline reach out to touch the petals of one of the roses, tears streaming down her cheeks, before she finally gets up and leaves them behind for good.

Slowly, the buzz of conversation resumes among the restaurant’s late-night clientele. When Pidge meets Shiro’s gaze, his expression is nothing short of uncomfortable, his lower lip drawn between his teeth. Pidge, however, is relatively unfazed.

“Guess that’s the end of that,” she murmurs. Belatedly, she realizes she’s been stirring her coffee with a fork.

Brows knitted together, Shiro regards her with carefully-measured concern. “That’s a bit cold, isn’t it?” he hedges. “Don’t you feel bad for her?”

That’s a good question. Does she? There’s no clear, truthful answer, so Pidge settles for a generic but logical one that’s strictly-worded around the intention of not actually giving her opinion. “Neither of them was in the right,” she points out. “She didn’t deserve to be publicly shamed, but he didn’t deserve to get his heart broken either. Or maybe they both deserved what they got. It’s hard to say without knowing the circumstances.” She shrugs.

Shiro doesn’t look entirely satisfied with that answer, but he nods. “You don’t seem too bothered by it,” he observes as he pours himself a second cup of black coffee. “I still have goosebumps.”

“Nothing really shakes me up that much anymore,” Pidge admits.

Angeline appears next to them half a moment later, a plate balanced on each palm. She places one in front of Shiro and the other in front of Pidge. “Is there anything else I can grab for y’all?” she asks pleasantly. Pidge glances at the ten empty creamer pods scattered around the coffee pot.

“No, I think we’re good.” She’d rather steal more from the adjacent table than have another person judging her for her questionable creamer habits.

“Alrighty—just give me a shout if you think of anything!” Angeline smiles that overly-friendly customer service smile before heading off to do waitress things elsewhere.

It isn’t until Pidge catches Shiro blatantly staring at her plate that she actually looks down at it. Her pancakes are topped with massive slices of peach, pralines and what looks to be some kind of brown sugar and butter sauce. What she originally assumed was whipped topping from the photo on the menu actually turns out to be literal ice cream—a heaping scoop of it that is already half melted, simultaneously seeping into the stack of pancakes and running off the edges.

“I am an adult,” Pidge says defiantly. “If I want to pump my veins full of straight sugar and caffeine at half-past-midnight, I am perfectly within my right to do so.” The pancakes are the embodiment of a bad idea if Pidge has ever seen one—she’s going to be absolutely wired for the rest of the night. “YOLO or something,” she deadpans as she cuts into the stack.

Shiro manages to pick his jaw up off the floor in time to dig into his own meal, which consist of eggs, bacon, hash browns and other boring breakfast food. They eat in silence for several minutes before Shiro speaks up, wiping a bit of the ketchup he’s coated his eggs with from the corner of his mouth. “So why is that?”

Pidge pauses with a forkful of diabetes an inch and a half from her mouth. “Huh?”

“You said that nothing really shocks you anymore,” he reiterates. “Why do you think that is?”

The less time it takes her to respond, Pidge thinks, the less awkward the reply. “Guess shock just doesn’t register with your system after a certain point.” She says it almost immediately, then stuffs the dripping bite of pancake into her mouth as a distraction from the way Shiro furrows his brow. “Don’t act so surprised,” she says once she’s finished chewing. “You heard what I said to that douchey cashier, right? Before you stopped me from breaking his nose, I mean. Still kind of wish you hadn’t done that.”

“Sorry?”

“Me too.” She sighs wistfully at the mental image of the teenage greaseball from the convenience store clutching his bleeding face. “Anyhow… I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.”

Shiro frowns at that, something that Pidge pretends not to see. “I’ve already told you, Pidge,” he murmurs, and Pidge hates how extra-serious sentences become with the inclusion of a name. “None of this is an inconvenience. If you want to talk about things, no matter how gritty, I’m willing to listen. If you don’t, then I’ll drop it right here and now.”

The combination offer-slash-promise leaves Pidge staring accusatorily at half-eaten pancakes as though they’ve done her some great personal wrong. Does she want to talk about things? _Things_ being the source of the feelings Shiro has stopped her from drowning in alcohol, no matter how temporarily? _Things_ being a conglomeration of tragedies and subsequent mental and emotional torment that she’s bottled up for months on end until they’re clawing at her insides, demanding freedom and indifferent of the cost? Does she want to talk about _things_?

The fact that she’s here seems like an answer in and of itself, but she doesn’t let herself think too much about that.

Pidge glances wordlessly Shiro, waiting for some inevitable, generic line about how talking about your problems makes you feel better, makes the pain easier to deal with, but it never comes. He really is willing to drop the subject then and there, to leave it at her say-so and never bring it up again. Perhaps it’s that knowledge that makes her less hesitant to open up to him. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s a complete and total stranger, that she’ll likely never see him again after tonight or have to deal with the consequences of his judgment. Truthfully, it’s probably a bit of both.

“There isn’t a lot to tell,” Pidge murmurs without looking up. She trails lines through the gooey mess on her plate, a saccharine amalgamation of butter, brown sugar, maple syrup and melted ice cream the collective consistency of molasses. “A couple of weeks after classes let out, my dad and my brother, Matt, got into a pretty heated argument about Matt’s future. Matt had just finished his first year of premed—he was really passionate about it, said he wanted to help people and save lives. But my dad was angry with him over it. See, Matt was kind of a genius for a kid with like forty thousand superhero action figures. Dad wanted him to become an aerospace engineer like his old man, said he’d never taken Matt for the bleeding-heart type and that he was wasting his potential in the medical field.”

Pidge pauses for a sip of coffee. Even with the sheer volume of added creamer, the sugary film the pancakes have left on her tongue makes the drink taste incredibly bitter. She shudders.

“They both said a lot of things they didn’t mean,” Pidge continues. “Matt needed some air, and he stormed out. It was late, probably ten-thirty or so when he left the house. I tried to go after him but mom said he needed some time to cool off. So we waited. By midnight, he still wasn’t back. I’d been calling his phone since eleven, but after the first few tries it started going straight to voicemail like he’d shut it off. At twelve-fifteen, we went out looking for him—all three of us…” Pidge becomes aware of the tremble in her voice only when Shiro says her name. When she looks up at him, his face is pinched, worried.

“Do you need a minute?” he asks, and Pidge isn’t sure how to answer. Having seen her push aside her coffee cup, Shiro offers up the remainder of the glass of orange juice that came with his meal. Gratefully, Pidge accepts. The sharp bite of the citrus is intensified by the sweetness having previously overtaken her entire mouth. But it’s different, and it grounds her. She takes a shaky breath.

“We found him uptown.” She says it softly, worried that her voice might break if she raises it above that feeble whisper. “Just… lying there in the middle of the sidewalk. Unconscious. Bleeding. It was dark, but you could see the blood pooling on the concrete like tar… The EMT said it looked like Matt had gotten jumped—his glasses were broken, and his wallet and phone were gone. I kept telling them I wanted to ride with him to the hospital, but they wouldn’t listen to me. Looking back... I think I knew he was dead before they even put him in the ambulance. They certainly did.” She falls quiet, staring at the way her hands are folded around Shiro’s empty glass. She doesn’t dare look up at him.

“Wasn’t hard to figure out who did it. The whole thing was caught on some storefront’s outdoor security camera. Three guys—one had a bat. They said that’s what killed him: blunt force trauma. Mostly to his head, but there was bruising everywhere. If he hadn’t died from the head trauma, it would’ve been from internal bleeding. Just... slower.”

When Pidge finally chances a glance up at Shiro again, his expression is pained, his lips pressed together in a tight line. When he catches her looking, he speaks, albeit hesitantly. “I’m... incredibly sorry for your loss,” he manages. “I can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like. Did—did they find the guys who did it?”

She nods. “Advanced facial recognition technology. The police arrested all three before midnight the next night. One of ‘em still had the bloody bat in the trunk of his car.” Pidge sighs heavily, her grip tightening on the glass until her knuckles turn white. “All the shops were closed down at that time of night—there was no one around, so there weren’t any eyewitnesses. If not for that security camera, they probably never would’ve been caught.”

“It’s lucky that that place even had outdoor surveillance,” Shiro murmurs gravely. “At least those brutes are off the street. Not that the end even begins to justify the means.”

Angeline walks by their table. She glances briefly at them, as though debating on whether or not to check in, but appears to read the mood and decide against it. She does, however, wordlessly drop off a new bowl of coffee creamers. Pidge takes note of the fact that the majority of them are hazelnut, and she almost feels guilty for being done with coffee for the night.

“Dad blamed himself.” Pidge’s words, though soft, seem jarring among the muted, carefree babble of the restaurant’s other late-night visitors, her anguish out of place amid their cheer. “He said a lot of things he shouldn’t have during his argument with Matt. Things he didn’t mean, of course, but he couldn’t take them back or apologize. He and mom fought constantly in the time it took to arrange the funeral, and even after that, it didn’t stop. At one point, mom told him that it was his fault Matt had died...”

“It wasn’t,” Shiro interrupts. “Matt was in the wrong place at the wrong time—the only people at fault for his death were the men who attacked him. Your father’s words didn’t put them there, and he certainly never asked them to harm his son.” He looks, in that moment, like he’s never been more convinced of anything in his life. Pidge smiles weakly, an expression of thanks clouded by a fog of painful memories.

“Yeah... Maybe if there’d been someone there to tell him that, he wouldn’t have put a bullet in his brain.”

Shiro visibly winces and Pidge, having abandoned the empty juice glass, rubs the back of her neck somewhat awkwardly. “Sorry if that was too blunt. That’s just—how I think of it, I guess. Hurts less to talk about it when it’s simplified ‘cause there aren’t a ton of little details to make it real.” Not that those little details don’t creep their way into her brain at night anyway, swarming her thoughts like parasites. But that’s what vodka’s for.

“Mom changed a lot after that,” Pidge supplies matter-of-factly, mostly to fill the silence. Shiro doesn’t seem to have much of an idea what to say. “She’s... less sad than you’d expect of someone who just lost a kid and a spouse.”

“Less sad?” Shiro echoes, lips turned down at the corners as he waits for clarification.

“Angry,” she explains. “Always going off about the smallest things. She drinks a lot, now—never used to before. It’s worse when she’s drunk.” Pidge punctuates her words with sharp stabs of her fork into what remains of her pancakes. The tines sink into the soggy mush like legs into quicksand, each impact resulting in a distinctive _squish._ “She’ll yell and scream and cry. Blame everything on me. She’s nowhere close to rational anymore.”

“Perhaps... she feels as though she needs to be in control?” Shiro tries. “Of everything, no matter how small or insignificant, because control was something that got snatched away from her regarding those, ah, incidents.”

“Yeah,” Pidge agrees simply. “That makes sense. But she self-destructs when things don’t go her way. She’s gotten violent before—more often these days than not, to tell you the truth. She throws things, breaks dishes and furniture. She’s hit me pretty hard more than once. It’s why I don’t spend much time at home anymore.” Her grip tightens on the fork. “I started making arrangements to live on campus this year just to get away from her. Maybe it’s selfish, but—”

“No,” Shiro cuts in, his voice firm and his expression dark. “It’s not selfish, Pidge. No amount of emotional trauma gives her the right to put her hands on you. You’re doing the right thing by taking yourself out of that situation.”

His adamance almost makes her feel a little less guilty, a little less like a failure as a daughter.

Almost.

“When I told her about moving,” Pidge hedges, “she lost it. Flew into a rage. Trashed my room, broke my lamp and a few other things. She said I was stupid for wanting to leave her, and that I was going to end up dead on the street like Matt if I left home. I got angry, told her not to talk about him like that, and she hit me so hard I blacked out for a second.” She sighs heavily. It’s not a fond memory—the wounds are still fresh and reliving that night is like digging the blade of a knife into them. “When she realized what she’d done, she dissolved into hysterics, screaming and sobbing and begging me not to leave, promising she’d change while I called a friend and packed a bag. I’ve been staying at his place for the past few days.”

Shiro is shaking his head, brows pulled tightly together as he glares at the wooden tabletop. “I’m glad,” he starts, “that you removed yourself from that kind of environment. No matter what she says, Pidge, you’re not obligated to endure that kind of abuse. It isn’t right.”

A lull in conversation brings Angeline to the table. She drops off their check and thanks them for coming in. Pidge watches Shiro tuck a debit card into the little leather folder and hand it back to Angeline, who disappears just as quickly as she showed up. A glance at the clock reveals it to be 1:33 AM.

“Thanks for all this,” Pidge breathes. “Really, it—it means a lot. Especially coming from a total stranger like this, I just. I don’t really know how to repay you.”

“You can repay me by taking care of yourself,” Shiro tells her. He takes a final sip of coffee that is surely cold by now. “I know things are difficult for you, but it’s not a crime to put yourself first, especially in your situation. Don’t feel guilty for things that are beyond your control, and don’t force yourself to remain in a toxic environment. Don’t put yourself at risk for other people. Especially people who don’t deserve it.”

Pidge nods mutely.

Most of the other people in the restaurant have cleared out by now. The only ones left are a couple of chatty college-age girls engaged in enthusiastic conversation and a man who looks to be in his thirties tapping away at a laptop, oblivious to the world around him. Angeline returns Shiro’s card and wishes the two of them a pleasant night. When Pidge stands up, she feels stiff, achey and empty, as though each and every one of the words she’s spoken throughout the night have settled collectively atop her shoulders, crushing her beneath their weight while at the same time leaving her hollow inside.

Together, the two of them head out into the night, and muggy darkness folds in on them in greeting. There’s a slight chill to the air, rare for August, that raises goosebumps on Pidge’s skin. She blames it on an earlier drizzle and silently labels it a precursor of the encroaching autumn season.

“Thanks again for dinner. Breakfast. You know what I mean,” she tells Shiro as they cross the parking lot and leave the dimly-glowing IHOP behind. Street lamps buzz along the curb leading back the way they came, insects bouncing off the bulbs. “And for listening.”

“Don’t mention it,” comes Shiro’s all-too-modest reply. They walk in silence for a while, and the sound of casual, unhurried footfalls on the concrete serves as a percussive accompaniment to an orchestra of cicadas and crickets. Pidge stuffs her hands into the pockets of her jeans, the rustle of denim almost dissonant compared to nature’s symphony.

“Where does that friend you’re staying with live?” Shiro asks without looking at Pidge. “If it isn’t a problem, I’d like to make sure you get there safely.”

Pidge doesn’t respond—not right away, at least, because she knows Shiro isn’t going to like the answer. But what is she supposed to do? Lie? To this man, to whom she’s lain bare her innermost turmoil and the tragedies of her life? It’s simply not an option. The realization pulls from her an exhausted sigh and stops her in her tracks. Shiro takes a couple more steps forward before pausing and turning back to her, frown lines creasing his forehead.

“M’not going back there tonight,” Pidge mumbles, half hoping that the crickets’ incessant chirping will drown out her voice and Shiro will give up on the question. It’s not likely, so she continues. “Lance has like, seven siblings, and they’re all in bed. I’d end up waking all of them up if I went back this late, and I’d rather not give the McClains a reason to hate my guts.”

A look of guilt washes over Shiro. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have kept you so late—”

“Don’t apologize,” Pidge cuts in. “Look, my mom’s probably passed out drunk at this hour, so there’s not really any danger to me going home. She won’t even hear me come in.”

When she catches Shiro’s eye in the half-light cast by a nearby street lamp, his expression is severe, his eyes dark. “You’re planning to go back home?” he verifies, and Pidge’s subsequent nod causes him to shake his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pidge, that sort of environment isn’t safe for you. Especially if your mother has been drinking and _especially_ if she hasn’t had anyone to take her anger out on in three days.” He looks uneasy, fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket. “I’m not comfortable with just dropping you back there and going on my merry way, knowing fully well the chances of all hell breaking loose when you go in.”

He has a point, Pidge knows, but her hands are tied.

“I’m going to have to go back sooner or later,” she tells him. “Even if it’s just for a few days. Class starts in a week and I can’t just keep putting Lance’s family out until the day I move into the campus dorms. I’ll be fine.”

Shiro is shaking his head again before she even finishes speaking. He’s not having it. “No way, Pidge. If something happened to you, I’d never be able to live with myself knowing that I had consciously put you in harm’s way.”

“Where on earth do you expect me to go, then?” Pidge gripes, bringing her hands up to rub at her temples where the first inklings of a headache are beginning to make themselves known. “I’m not exactly swimming in options here, Shiro.”

Shiro takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a gusty sigh as he runs a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he decides. “So come back with me, then. I have an empty guest room and you won’t be inconveniencing anyone. Most importantly, you won’t be in any danger. And at the end of the week, I’ll help you move into your dorm.”

Pidge gapes at him. ‘You can’t be serious,” she challenges, a breathless laugh of utter disbelief bubbling up in her chest. Even then, Shiro’s gaze is intense, unfaltering. “You’d seriously let me, some rando you just met two hours ago, stay with you for a week? Sleep in your house, eat your food, use your wifi? Dude, what if I’m a secretly a murderer? What if everything I’ve told you is just an elaborate lie to get you to let your guard down so I can stab you in your sleep and sell your organs on the black market?”

“I’ll take my chances,” Shiro deadpans in addition to a rather impressive eye roll. He pulls a carton of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lights one. Pidge reads it as an act of sheer exasperation.

“And what if _you’re_ the murderer?” she demands, eyeing him suspiciously.

Shiro’s sigh takes the form of an amorphous smoke cloud. “I’d have figured out a way to poison your food,” he remarks. “Stabbing leaves too much evidence, after all. And it’s not very classy.”

The first hints of a smile begin to tug at the corners of Pidge’s lips. She can see humor flickering behind Shiro’s eyes, reflected there alongside the amber glow of the street lamps.

“Are you really sure it’s okay?” she asks, trying to sound neutral even though she’s sure her own eyes betray the spark of hope catching in her chest. When Shiro takes another drag from his cigarette and nods, she feels that spark ignite within her.

It’s the first real warmth she’s felt in months.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how 'bout them season 4 feels, my dudes?  
> Come scream with me on Tumblr!  @Teravoltron 

As it turns out, Shiro lives in a small-but-charming apartment complex about a ten minute walk from the convenience store where Pidge ran into him. She’s rather surprised by the place’s modernity considering its close proximity to said convenience store, which looks like it’s been around for a small eternity and hasn’t been maintained in as long. The apartment complex looks like it belongs in an entirely different world. There’s a quaint little community mailbox near the front adorned with rows of locked cubbies, each belonging to its own individual apartment. Directly across from the mailbox sits the rental office, a cute little building with white siding, a darker shingled roof and several flower beds that are so well-looked-after that the blooms planted there almost look fake. Attached to the office is a tiny fitness center; courtesy of the moon, Pidge can see dumbbells and exercise bikes through the center’s Plexiglas door even though the lights are out.

Overall, Pidge thinks, this is the sort of place she could realistically imagine herself living in with a boyfriend and approximately seven cats.

The actual apartments are arranged in rows of elongated, segmented buildings that half-resemble the front office with their white vinyl siding. Each section has four doors in total—two on the ground, diagonal from one another, and two on a second story made accessible by short wooden staircases leading up to them. Shiro leads Pidge up to one of the second-story apartments, fumbling for a key before they even reach the door. The orangey glow of the lantern-style porch lights mounted outside each unit gives the entire place a warm, homey feeling. Pidge finds herself gazing out over the wooden banister at the fountain in the center of one of the complex’s man-made ponds, taking comfort in the sound of trickling water.

“This place is nice,” she murmurs just as Shiro opens the door. Trailing a pace or two behind, she follows him inside and lets it ease shut behind her. All of the lights are already on, as is the TV—Pidge can hear one of those late-night infomercials playing at a low volume. “Do you not turn your stuff off when you leave the house?”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on being gone for two and a half hours,” Shiro reminds her with a chuckle as he kicks off his shoes. Pidge follows suit, albeit sheepishly, eyes focused intently on her bright orange socks.

“Sorry...”

Shiro glances at her. “What’s to be sorry for?” he asks with a shrug of his shoulders. “Got my cigarettes, met a cool person, ate some good food. All in all, I’d say it’s been a pretty decent night.” He breaks into a grin, one that’s contagious enough to spread to Pidge when she catches sight of it. “Anyhow,” he continues thoughtfully, “you don’t have anything you need to be apologizing about.”

“Guess so,” Pidge replies, glancing around the apartment. To her left is the main room. It’s spacious, with a dark gray sectional and an armchair situated around a decently-sized TV. There’s even a huge window that provides those looking out it a great view of the pond. To her right is a small dining space, complete with carved wooden table and chairs, and just beyond that, a cute little kitchen. There’s a hallway between the main room and the kitchen, which common sense dictates leads to bedrooms and bathrooms—it’s the only part of the apartment that’s currently dark.

It’s a cute little place, Pidge thinks, somehow fitting of a guy like Shiro. One thing she does notice, however, is that it’s a bit of a mess. Clothes litter the floor in piles, some cleaner-looking than others. Grocery bags and takeout boxes clutter the dining room table and the kitchen counters alike. There are dishes piled up high in the sink, viewable from as far away as the front door.

Pidge isn’t sure if she makes a face or what, but Shiro seems to pick up on her observation. Sheepishly, he rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry for the mess,” he laughs somewhat awkwardly. “I’m really bad at keeping up with chores because I work so much. My girlfriend likes to yell at me when it gets particularly bad, but she’s traveling for work right now so she isn’t here to keep me on my toes.”

Pidge cracks a lopsided smile at that. “No judgment here,” she assures him, watching as he futilely attempts to shove several empty Chinese takeout boxes into an already-overstuffed trashcan. She has to cover her mouth to hide her laughter when he gives up.

“So you’re a workaholic, then?” Pidge accuses playfully, taking a seat on the ottoman in front of the sectional. “What is it that you do?”

“Pediatric physical therapy,” Shiro replies. In lieu of putting the takeout boxes in the trash, he’s started putting the smaller boxes into larger ones.

“At the little clinic attached to the hospital?” Pidge asks, surprised. “I didn’t even know that place was functional. It was totally deserted the last time I passed by it.”

Shiro chuckles helplessly at the pile of dishes in the sink. It’s clear that he wants to clean up, but has no idea where to even begin. “It was undergoing renovations until just recently,” he tells Pidge. “Got some new equipment, had the place completely revamped. All of our patients were forwarded to a treatment facility in the next city over while the remodeling was going on, so I was commuting there and back each day for a while. It was worth it, though—the clinic is much better suited now for the work we do there. And it doesn’t look like an utter dump, unlike this damn apartment...” He adds that last bit as an afterthought as he regrettably eyes a half-gallon of milk that Pidge is pretty sure has been sitting on the counter, unrefrigerated, for a long, long time.

“That’s cool,” Pidge remarks. “So you like working with kids, then?” Shiro seems like the kind of guy whose super power is to instantly make friends with any living creature—puppies, kittens, children... Pidge.

“It’s really rewarding,” Shiro answers. He’s given up entirely on the mess that is the kitchen and has instead begun buzzing about the living room, cleaning up small piles of clothes. Actually, “cleaning” is probably the wrong word, Pidge thinks as she watches him relocate his armfuls of assorted clothing to a considerably-larger mound near the washing machine, which is behind a pair of slatted bi-fold doors in the dining area. “Kids have so much to live for, you know? They’re stronger, mentally, than any adult I’ve ever met. The injuries and illnesses that land them in my care—they’re just obstacles to overcome on the way to growing up. It’s like ‘can’t’ isn’t an option for them.” Shiro’s smile is a fond one as he straightens. “Speaking of the clinic,” he sighs, “I have to be there pretty early in the morning. I think we’d both do well to get some sleep.”

His words do a great job of bringing to Pidge’s attention just how incredibly drained she is. She squeezes her eyes shut, forcefully blinking back the burn of exhaustion and getting to her feet. Shiro gestures toward the hallway.

“The guest bedroom is the first door on the left,” he supplies. “The sheets, unlike most things in this place, are clean and fresh. I’ll go grab you something to sleep in.”

Belatedly, Pidge realizes that everything she took with her when she left her mother’s company is shoved haphazardly into a backpack that is still conveniently-located at Lance’s. She’s going to have to fix that tomorrow. Murmuring a word of thanks that she isn’t sure Shiro even hears, she heads for the aforementioned guest room on feet that drag the carpet, weighted down with the events of the night.

Shiro is right about the guest room—it’s immaculate. The bed is made, the sheets neatly-tucked and the comforter pulled back at the corner in a display that was almost definitely the work of Shiro’s girlfriend and not Shiro himself. Pidge feels a little weird about messing it up, and actually considers offering to sleep on the couch instead. The only things stopping her are the knowledge that Shiro would definitely refuse and the fact that the sectional is as loaded with dirty laundry as the floor was before her host’s impromptu “cleaning” session.

Just as Pidge draws the covers back, Shiro knocks on the doorframe, a dramatically-oversized T-shirt and a pair of dark gray sweatpants folded in his hands. Pidge, although grateful, wonders how this man can possibly have any more clothing floating around than what has already accumulated into Laundry Mountain in the corner of the dining room.

“They’ll be big.” Shiro states the obvious. “But they’ll be comfy.” He sets the articles down on the bed. “I’m gonna hit the hay. Oh—don’t be surprised if I’m not here when you wake up, but feel free to use anything you want around the house.”

“Thanks,” Pidge breathes, picking up the clothes and resisting the urge to hold the shirt to her chest for a comical estimate of just how ridiculous she’s going to look in it. She manages a smile. “For everything, I mean. It’s really nice of you to let me crash here for the week.”

“Don’t mention it.” Shiro’s smile mirrors her own, right down to the way his eyelids droop slightly, heavy with fatigue. “Get some rest, Pidge. Have a good night.”

“Yeah. Night, Shiro.” Once the door is shut and Shiro has disappeared down the hallway, Pidge changes into the borrowed clothes and takes a second to examine her reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door. Shiro’s T-shirt hangs off one of her shoulders, and the hem of it drops below her knees like that of a nightgown. The sweatpants are baggy, their drawstring the only thing keeping them in place around her hips, and the bottom cuffs are bunched around her ankles with much fabric to spare. She looks like a little kid, but she’s too tired to give it much thought beyond that.

Head and limbs alike aching in protest of her wakeful state, Pidge abandons her glasses on the bedside table, crawls beneath the plush comforter of Shiro’s guest bed and draws it up to her ears. If she listens hard enough, she can hear the faint trickle of water from the fountain outside joining an ongoing symphony of cicadas and crickets. Her eyes sting when she finally closes them, but she’s too tired to care. Listening to nature’s lullaby, she burrows down into the depths of her borrowed bed. Pidge knows her mind should be swimming right now—drowning, even, as odd as the situation she’s found herself in happens to be. But her brain has shut down, her senses have gone numb and all coherent thought has melted away into the emptiness of the room like infant shadows rejoining a greater darkness.

Just before sleep claims her, Pidge feels something land with a soft _whump_ at her feet. It crawls up behind her and settles in the nook created by the bend of her knees. A quiet but distinct purring tells Pidge that her nighttime visitor is a cat, but she doesn’t think she’d have opened her eyes even if it were a dragon.

-

True to his word, Shiro has already left the apartment by the time Pidge drags herself out of bed, which isn’t surprising given that it’s nearly noon. The sun is high in the sky outside her window, but that doesn’t stop Pidge from squinting at the too-bright screen of her phone, practically scowling at the twenty or so notifications that have not only blown up her home screen, but also drained her battery to 3%. Thankfully, she remembers seeing a charger—a blessedly compatible one—plugged into the wall of the kitchen, and she groggily gets to her feet with that destination in mind.

It only takes about three minutes of Garbage Tetris to make a path to the outlet, which Pidge considers a personal accomplishment. Plugging her phone in rewards her with a lightning bolt of success and a new notification to join the ranks of its predecessors. Instead of reading what is almost guaranteed to be a flood of panicked “where the actual living hell are you?” text messages from Lance, Pidge just calls him.

He picks up barely halfway through the first ring.

“ _Hello?!_ Pidge—is that you?!”

“Who else would it be, stupid?” Pidge sighs and runs a hand through her dramatic bedhead.

“Uh, I don’t _know_ , Pidge, maybe the _thugs_ I thought _kidnapped_ you?! Where are you? Why didn’t you come back last night?” Lance sounds angry, but it’s a relieved sort of angry. The “I’m glad my friend isn’t dead but I also want answers” sort of angry that makes Pidge smile because it’s so Lance and it’s a reminder that someone cares.

“S'a long story.” Pidge spots a box of cereal on the counter and gives it a shake. It’s full, and her borrowed charging cable is just long enough that she can check the fridge for milk without untucking the phone from between her cheek and shoulder. Alas, Shiro’s apartment seems to be milkless with the exception of the expired half-gallon on the counter, and Pidge isn’t ready to vomit this early in the morning. “I didn’t get mugged or kidnapped or anything,” she assures Lance as she hip-checks the refrigerator door shut. “I met a guy at the store last night and he offered to take me to dinner. It was too late to come back there after, so I crashed at his place.”

“ _What?!_ ” Lance’s voice raises to a shriek that’s at least two full octaves above his normal range. It’s both comical and cringeworthy. “No. Okay. Back up, Pidge. You met a random dude in a shoddy-ass convenience store and just decided on the fly that he’d make a great candidate for a _sleepover?_ What the hell is _wrong_ with you?!”

“He’s not a bad guy,” Pidge defends. Her next attempt at breakfast is a half-loaf of bread, which—miraculously—turns out not to be moldy. She drops two slices into the toaster. “He works at the hospital.”

“Doing what, stealthily adding to the number of bodies in the morgue?” Lance grits out.

“Ha-ha,” Pidge intones sarcastically. “Close, Lance, but he’s actually a pediatric physical therapist.”

“And I’m the king of freaking Cuba,” Lance bites back. “You know if you break the word ‘therapist’ apart, you get—”

“Cuba doesn’t run on a monarchy,” Pidge interrupts flatly. “It operates under a—holy hell, is that Nutella?” The jar is unopened, tucked away in a grocery bag that was probably brought home the same day as the untouchable milk. Pidge snatches it from its hiding place and locates what is likely the last clean butter knife in the apartment.

“Are you raiding this guy’s kitchen?” Lance yelps, his voice sounding strained and more than a little distraught. “Pidge, for real, what the hell?”

“He’s at work,” Pidge replies just in time for her toast to pop up. She mutters a curse when she burns herself in an attempt to remove the slices from their metal prison, then opts for the creative alternative that is plucking them out with the help of a plastic chip clip. “Hey, can I stop over later and get my stuff?”

Seemingly forgetting his exasperation for a moment, Lance’s tone changes to one of concern. “Are you going back to your mom’s place?”

There are a few beats of silence as Pidge spreads a generous amount of Nutella onto each slice of toast. “No,” she finally replies. “Look, you guys have enough going on over there without adding a hapless runaway to the mix. I really appreciate you letting me stick around for the past few days, but I can’t keep inconveniencing your family for another week. Shiro offered to let me stay here until classes start, so I took him up on it.”

“You _what?!_ ”

“Okay, you have _got_ to stop doing that.” Pidge holds the phone away from her ear, trying not to get Nutella on the screen. “He’s a good guy, Lance. And I wish you’d have a little more faith in me when it comes to making my own perfectly rational decisions.”

“Rational,” Lance scoffs. “You call deciding to live with a strange man you met on the streets rational? Pidge, I think you need your head checked. That’s not rational—that’s—that’s Stockholm syndrome.”

“Stockholm takes more than ten hours to set in, Lance,” Pidge sighs, then continues around a bite of toast. “Shiro’s not a creep. Trust me—I’d know if he was. Remember when I called the fact that Mr. Boretti was banging that cheerleader?”

“Good ‘ole Mr. Boretti,” Lance hums. “He was such a cool teacher, too.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that he was diddling Tracy Spelling in exchange for changing her grade so she could stay on the squad.”

“Okay, okay.” Lance sounds agitated. “You’ve made your point. I still don’t like it, though.”

Pidge stuffs the remainder of her first piece of toast into her mouth. “It’s only for a week,” she says, her assurance muffled by a copious amount of Nutella. She swallows. “Besides, he has a cat. It loved on me last night.”

“Are you trying to imply that cat owners cannot possibly be bad people?” Lance asks, and Pidge can hear him rolling his eyes. “Cats are basically fluffy balls of seething hatred, Pidge—they’re, like, the pet of choice for supervillains.”

“And?”

“What color is the cat, Pidge?”  

“I don’t like what you’re implying.”

“It’s black, isn’t it? You’re living with a serial killer and his pet shadow demon that he summoned from the depths of hell with the blood of the virgins he’s sacrificed in his basement!”

“He doesn’t have a basement. Can I come get my stuff or not?”

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

It’s Pidge’s turn to roll her eyes as she ends the call without replying. She finishes off her second piece of toast and leaves the empty plate and Nutella-caked knife in the sink with the rest of the dishes. It’s only on her way out of the kitchen that she catches sight of a silver key sitting on the dining room table, a note and a twenty dollar bill tucked beneath it. Shiro’s handwriting, Pidge discovers, is surprisingly neat—at least in comparison to his apartment.

 _Back around 7:30. Here’s $20 for pizza or whatever you feel like ordering. The wi-fi password is ALLURA1013, same with Netflix (in case the TV logs you out on its own, which it likes to do. Allura says it’s haunted). Use this key to lock up the apartment when you go get your stuff from your friend’s place. See you soon!_  
-Shiro  
-P.S., Blackie is an asshole. He has already been fed, do not fall for his lies.

As though on cue, a loud meow breaks through the silence. Pidge turns toward its source to find a large black cat with piercing amber eyes staring up at her from its spot next to a suspiciously-empty food dish. It meows again, a long and almost anguished sound, those slitted eyes staring into Pidge’s very soul.

“Sorry, Blackie,” Pidge murmurs in mock-sympathy. “Looks like you’ve been found out.” The cat’s reply is another pitiful, heart-wrenching meow, and Pidge sighs. “I don’t make the rules, buddy.” She glances around, and as she takes in the sight of the wrecked kitchen and clothing-littered living room furniture, the first inklings of an idea begin to creep their way into her mind. “Buuuuut... If you help me clean this place up, there might be some treats in it for you.”

Blackie purrs and saunters over to her, tail drawing S shapes in the air as he rubs against her leg in what appears to be agreement. Pidge grins.

The first order of business is laundry, Pidge decides, since she can work on other things between loads. But before she can psyche herself up to willingly handle a near-stranger’s dirty underwear, she finds herself in need of mood music—auditory motivation. She gives the kitchen and living room a once-over, hoping to find some sort of portable Bluetooth speaker, but comes up short. Put out, she considers looking for a bowl to put her phone in—an old trick Lance taught her—but realizes half a second after the thought crosses her mind that there aren’t any clean ones around. Groaning in frustration, Pidge runs a hand through her hair. There has to be something…

On a hunch, Pidge heads for the bathroom. She checks the counter first with no results, then steels herself in front of the shower curtain as though pulling it back is going to reveal a serial killer.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

What it does reveal is a waterproof mini-speaker firmly suction-cupped to the tile wall. Pidge pumps a fist into the air in victory and pries the thing free, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that either Shiro or his girlfriend has a fondness for jamming in the shower.

With the speaker stuck to the kitchen counter and connected to her phone, Pidge pulls up her “Motivational” playlist and the first riffs of Eye of the Tiger echo through the apartment. It’s all Pidge needs to get into the appropriate mindset for the task ahead. She starts with the living room, gathering up the remainder of the clothes that Shiro failed to add to Laundry Mountain the night before. There are shirts on the recliner, a pair of jeans tossed haphazardly across one arm of the sectional and a grand total of thirteen socks strewn about almost systematically enough to be considered artistic. Somehow there’s a pair of boxers underneath one of the end tables, and Pidge is pretty sure there are probably a few forgotten articles behind the couch as well, but even Eye of the Tiger can’t motivate her that much, not that her arms would be long enough to retrieve them from the void if it could.

The first load of laundry consists of her newly-retrieved hoard and her own clothes from the day before, which Pidge figures she’ll need for the trip to Lance’s later—at least, she will if she doesn’t want to show up at his door looking like a toddler wearing their dad’s shirt. After a rousing game of How Does This Thing Work with Shiro’s unfamiliar washing machine, she gets it going and turns her attention back to the kitchen.

Shiro has a dishwasher. Through some miracle of God, he also has dishwasher tabs. Pidge decides to load up as many dishes as she can fit, then wash the rest by hand while the machine runs its cycle. She separates out the plastics for hand-washing, knowing fully well that a melted glob of gross clogging up Shiro’s dishwasher is the last thing she needs right now, and manages to get a full two-thirds of the remaining dishes arranged on the racks while simultaneously chanting along with the Bill Nye the Science Guy theme song.

She’s nothing if not a decent multi-tasker.

With the dishwasher up and running, Pidge fills the kitchen sink with hot water and soap, watching an impressive mound of white foam build itself high, fed by the stream from the faucet. Blackie, intrigued by the jiggling mass of suds, catapults himself off the dining room table and onto the counter, padding across to sniff and then experimentally swipe at the object of his curiosity. Pidge’s eyes follow a paw-sized clump of foam as it dislodges and floats down to the floor.

“Way to go.”

Unapologetic, Blackie wanders a few paces away and settles down on the marble countertop, amber eyes fixated on Pidge as she begins scrubbing God-knows-what off the remaining dishes.

“You could help, you know,” Pidge informs the cat, speaking over the beginnings of Bohemian Rhapsody. “I promised you treats in exchange for aid, you useless hairball.”

Blackie lets out a loud, indignant meow, then casually swats a takeout box onto the floor.

“Asshole.”

Pidge develops a system when it comes to the laundry. Once she’s transferred the first load to the dryer and refilled its counterpart, she falls into a steady rhythm of remove, reload, fold and put away. She has to pluck Blackie out of fresh basketfuls of warm laundry more than once, and he doesn’t seem to learn from his mistakes because every time Pidge turns away, he hops right back in and curls into a tight, purring ball.

Once Pidge finishes putting away each new load of laundry, she focuses her attention on some other aspect of cleaning the apartment as she waits for the dryer to call out to her with the series of beeps she’s quickly becoming used to. She stuffs the collection of take-out boxes into two separate garbage bags after one proves to be insufficient, then pulls the existing bag from the trash can and ties that off as well. She leaves all three bags next to the front door, resolving to take them down to the nearby dumpster once she’s showered and dressed.

Another round of folding. Laundry Mountain dwindles, weathered away by Hurricane Pidge.

Something Pidge learns very quickly is that Blackie is not at all fond of the vacuum cleaner. At the first sign of the dreaded machine, the fur along his spine stands straight up and his tail puffs out to thrice its normal size. “What, do you think it’s going to eat you?” Pidge asks. When she walks past him to plug the vacuum in, Blackie, on edge, jumps a foot in the air and hisses at her feet. His eyes are trained anxiously on the vacuum as though he’s certain that yes, the monster before him has spent its entire existence surreptitiously disguised as a household cleaning device when, in reality, its sole purpose is to devour as many cats as possible. Unsurprisingly, the instant his nemesis roars to life, Blackie yowls and skitters down the hallway, out of sight.

“Alrighty then.”

Vacuuming gives way to dusting, another load of laundry and an impromptu karaoke session to half the Moana soundtrack. Blackie reappears eventually, once the vacuum has been tucked back into the closet where it can no longer inflict any bodily harm. Pidge finds cat treats in one of the kitchen drawers and scatters a few across the carpet for Blackie to find while she wipes down the kitchen counters. The treats last all of thirty seconds before Blackie makes an attempt on the bag, which Pidge barely manages to wrestle away from him. She doesn’t come out of it unscathed, either, sustaining three long scratches down her forearm.

“You are literally the world’s worst cat,” Pidge informs Blackie bitterly. “I cannot believe I let you cuddle me last night.” She has a feeling that if Blackie could flip her off, he would. He hisses at her instead, which she figures is close enough, and she returns the favor by waving both skyward-pointing middle fingers in the cat’s face.

The last item on Pidge’s mental checklist is cleaning Furry Satan’s litter tray, which, in hindsight, she wishes she’d done before tying off the trash bags. Thankfully, Pidge is a woman of many workarounds, and she makes use of the empty grocery bags that she forgot to stuff in alongside the rest of the garbage, doubling them up and scooping the litter tray’s unmentionable contents into them. Pidge is acutely aware of Blackie intently watching her from atop the bathroom counter, and she scowls at him.

“This is what it’s come to, you little shit,” she hisses. Blackie seems unconcerned, licking a paw and swiping it over his ear. Pidge rolls her eyes. “Don’t try to be cute with me. I bet you lick Shiro’s toothbrush when he isn’t home.”

Blackie stops mid-lick and eyes Pidge warily, pink tongue still poking out.

“That’s right,” Pidge says finitely. “I’m onto you.” She ties off the bag and returns to the living room to leave it with its brethren by the front door.

Laundry Mountain is no more, Pidge a mythical giant having stomped flat the land on which it was built. Included among the final articles of clothing that Pidge tosses into the washing machine are her borrowed, makeshift pajamas, and Pidge has to admit that it feels a little weird, stripping down in the middle of a stranger’s apartment. Not as weird, though, as she would feel leaving one single dirty outfit in Shiro’s newly-unearthed hamper after spending literally hours doing laundry. Briefly and only half-serious in the thought, Pidge considers hidden cameras as she wraps a still-warm towel around her torso, then breaks into giggles when she realizes that the closest thing to secret surveillance in this place are the prying eyes of a certain asshole cat.

With the last batch of laundry on its way to completion, Pidge heads for the shower. The hot spray is rejuvenating, even though summoning it comes at the cost of a ten minute game of Naked and Afraid as Pidge tries to figure out Shiro’s weird faucets. Though not usually one for long showers, Pidge stays put until the heat makes her dizzy and steam clouds the outside mirror into obscurity.

Blackie apparently does not enjoy being locked out of the bathroom, because the first sound Pidge hears when she shuts off the showerhead is angry yowling, followed shortly thereafter by the percussive beating of paws against the door. With an impressive eyeroll, Pidge pulls open the door and Blackie darts past her, brushing against her wet legs and effectively coating them in a thick layer of loose black fur.

Once Pidge is dressed and has pulled her still-damp hair into a half-assed ponytail, it only takes her about fifteen minutes to deal with the remainder of the laundry. She folds what she’s got while the last load dries, and half the clothes means more or less half the dry time, so the final articles come out early. When all is said and done, Shiro’s entire wardrobe is back where it belongs, folded neatly and tucked away in his dresser instead of piled uselessly in the corner of the dining room. Pidge is satisfied.

Snatching her phone off the charger with one hand and grabbing Shiro’s house key with the other, she bids farewell to Blackie and speed-dials Lance.

“Hullo?” He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey. I’m on my way over.” Pidge relocates all three and a half trash bags to the welcome mat and locks the door before hoisting them over her shoulder. Thankfully, they’re light. “Unlock your front door.”

“Do you want me to come pick you up?” Lance asks, sounding perplexed. “Are you even within walking distance? I will literally drive over to get you—”

“Your car smells like a dead mouse,” Pidge reminds him. The dumpster is in the far corner of the parking lot, and getting there is easy compared to hauling three giant trash bags (and one less-giant one) down an awkwardly-angled flight of stairs. “I could use the fresh air anyway.”

Lance gives an exasperated sigh. “It’s not a dead mouse,” he defends. “Mari spilled her milkshake on the floormats last week—”

“Which, after six-ish days in the late August sun, begins to smell a hell of a lot like a dead mouse,” Pidge finishes, then tosses the bags, one by one, into their final resting place. “Not to mention that you still don't have any boys in your yard. When are you going to take my advice and stop letting your siblings eat and drink in your car, anyway? Especially klutzy ones like Mariposa.”

“When are you going to stop operating under the very-wrong assumption that my siblings actually listen to me?” Lance retorts.

“Fair. I’ll be there in thirty.”

-

Approximately twenty seconds before Pidge makes it to Lance’s doorstep, the sky opens up to unleash what are probably the biggest drops of rain Pidge has ever had the displeasure of being hit in the face with. She can practically hear each individual drop as it lands on the pavement, and it sounds like it may as well be raining frogs instead of water. The mental image of thousands of frog bodies bouncing violently off the tarmac as the air fills with the sound of confused croaking has Pidge cracking up as she breaks into a jog to clear the rest of the distance to Lance’s porch without getting _too_ wet.

That last part doesn’t exactly go according to plan, because Pidge is wringing the front of her shirt out over Lance’s welcome mat only a short moment later as she jabs at the doorbell once, twice, three times rapid fire. The ringing sets off a flurry of aggressive yapping, which Pidge recognizes as that of Jago, the McClain family’s Attack Pomeranian. He darts out to dance in circles around Pidge the second the front door opens, forepaws scrabbling at her knees.

“Hey,” Lance greets, though his brow furrows when he sees the state of Pidge. “You look… damp.”

“I look damp _good_ ,” Pidge counters, then mentally kicks herself for making such a blatantly Lance-ish joke and resists the urge to make it worse by following it up with finger guns. He’s rubbing off on her, damn it. Pidge nudges her way past him into the house and Lance shuts the door once he’s herded Jago back inside.

“Pidge,” Lance murmurs, forehead creased with concern that carries into the firm line of his lips. “I really, really think you should reconsider this whole thing. You don’t know this Shiro dude—what if he’s some kind of freak?”

“Well, I will admit that his cat is a significantly bigger asshole than I gave him credit for,” Pidge grants. “But I trust Shiro.”

“On what grounds?!” Lance demands, and Pidge can tell from the look of his eyes that he is undoubtedly and thoroughly distraught. “You met him in a twenty-four hour convenience store older than _mi abuela_ and what, just immediately decided he was some kind of superhero? I know you’re going through a lot, Pidge, and I can’t imagine how tough it must be on you, but you’ve gotta think of your own safety a little more seriously than this!” Lance’s fists clench at his sides. “Look, I talked to my mom and she’s totally fine with you staying here—I know you’ve got this weird fixation on the idea that you’re some kind of burden, but you’re _not_ , and I’d feel one hell of a lot better if you would take my advice for once!”

Lance’s frustration gives way to quiet, interrupted only by the sound of Jago’s panting and the rhythmic thumping of his plumy tail against Pidge’s calf. When the hush begins threatening to carry over to awkward from thoughtful, Pidge lets out a gusty sigh and steps forward, wrapping both her arms around Lance’s torso and hugging him tight.

“I really appreciate it, Lance. You know I do. But you’ve already done so much for me, and I can’t keep taking from your family when I don’t have anything to give back.” She feels Lance’s hand light on her back, and it gives her strength to keep going. “You’re right—I don’t know Shiro. But in a way, that makes it easier to accept his help.” Pidge doesn’t elaborate on that, doesn’t feel the need to explain to Lance that her unwillingness to continue accepting aid from his family is not only a matter of not wanting to inconvenience them, but a matter of pride as well. Pride that doesn’t quite matter as much to her when it comes to Shiro, who has already seen her at her weakest, raw and exposed, as it does when it comes to Lance, who is somehow still under the impression that Pidge is stronger than she really is. Lance, who has known her for years and, as her best friend, has far more faith in Pidge than she could ever begin to have in herself.

“I’ll be careful,” she vows as she draws away, looking Lance in the eye. “I’ll stay in touch so you won’t have to worry. And if anything seems even the slightest bit off, I’ll book it out of there and you’ll be the first person I call.”

The words seem to do little by way of putting Lance’s mind at ease, but he nods nonetheless. “I’d better be.”

“You always are,” Pidge reminds him, the first hints of a small, melancholy smile tugging at her lips. It’s not a lie—Lance is her rock, as close to her heart as any sibling. She thinks back to having dialed his number with shaky fingers the night of Matt’s death, tears blurring the world around her as she’d choked out a disjointed explanation in between sobs. Despite how late it had been, Pidge had heard his car starting up before she’d even finished telling him what was going on. Looking at Lance now, at the pinched expression he wears, Pidge can tell he’s remembering the same thing.

“Love you,” Pidge murmurs, and shoves gently at Lance’s shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood. The distance in his eyes evaporates—mostly, anyways—and he smiles.

“Love you too, _Paloma._ ”

The old nickname sparks a grin from Pidge and she elbows Lance affectionately. “Come on, loser, help me pack up my stuff.”

With Lance’s help, it doesn’t take long to get Pidge’s things together. After all, there isn’t a whole lot that she managed to throw into her backpack in her haste to leave home. A week’s worth of clothes, a couple of books, Pidge’s laptop and a phone charger are all that make up the list. She stuffs everything into the main compartment of the dorky cat backpack Matt got her as a congrats-on-getting-into-uni present last year and forces the zipper shut with near-Herculean effort before falling backward onto Lance’s mattress. Jago flings himself up next to her and immediately begins rolling on top of her ponytail. Lance settles beside her.

“You can’t walk back in this,” he says pointedly, jerking his chin toward his bedroom window. Through the half-open blinds, Pidge can see the rain coming down in sheets. “Let me drive you back, at least.”

“Shiro won’t be home for another hour,” Pidge murmurs. “Maybe it’ll let up by then.”

“For God’s sake, Pidge, I’ll take mom’s van so you don’t have to smell the—”

“Dead mouse?”

“—milkshake,” Lance finishes anticlimactically. He gives Pidge a tired look and she snickers unapologetically.

“Won’t your mom be pissed if you take the van?” Pidge reaches out to rub Jago’s tummy when he flops onto his side. She sees Lance shake his head out of the corner of her eye.

“Nah, she told me I could drive it until I’m able to get mine de-funked.”

“Does she think it smells like a dead mouse too?” Pidge asks innocently.

“Actually, if I remember correctly, the phrasing she used was ‘ _culo total._ ’”

Pidge gives him a side eye. “Which means?” she prompts.

“’Total ass.’”

There’s a moment of silence that somehow conveys absolute and unwavering agreement between the two of them. Then both erupt into laughter, startling Jago and sending him into a flurry of angry barks. The sight of an enraged Pomeranian only serves to make them laugh harder, until they're both clutching their stomachs, tears gathering ranks at the corners of their eyes.

-

They chat for a little while longer about things that don’t matter, just passing the time as friends do. When the conversation runs dry, Lance drives Pidge back to the apartment that will be her home for the next six days. Pidge swears she sees Lance physically relax in the driver’s seat when they turn into the complex and he sees that it’s actually a nice, respectable place instead of some thug-infested hellhole.

“See? Totally normal, just like I said. No torture chambers or sex dungeons or drug rings,” she tells Lance as he parks his mother’s minivan in Shiro’s designated space. Lance rolls his eyes, but he does look significantly less edgy than he did an hour prior, and Pidge considers it a small victory.

“Swear to me you’ll keep in touch?” Lance asks, and when Pidge meets his gaze, she’s struck silent for a moment by the intensity of his eyes. Lance is so rarely serious that seeing him like this, brow furrowed and jaw set, is jarring to say the very least. Even so, Pidge feels her heart swell with affection and gratitude for Lance and his willingness to look after her and keep her safe.

“I swear,” she concedes, holding out her right hand with her pinky extended. She smiles up at Lance, and Lance mirrors it as he links their pinkies together. One second goes by, then two, then Lance is using his leverage on Pidge’s hand to drag her into a tight hug. Pidge rests her forehead against her shoulder and lets him.

“Good,” Lance whispers without letting go. “You know you can call me for anything, no matter what.”

“Course I do.” Lance is warm, strong despite his slight build. He reminds Pidge a lot of Matt, especially the way he hugs with his entire body, leaving no room for personal space. It’s endearing.

When they separate, Lance gives Pidge a little smile. “Talk to you soon, yeah? Call me the day you move into the dorms and I’ll come help. It’ll be a cinch with the van.”

“Yeah, and then you can become the laughing stock of the entire university when people see you driving your mom’s Pacifica with the stick figure family on the rear windshield and the license plate that says MC FAM with a four instead of an A.”

“Offer rescinded,” Lance huffs, looking thoroughly offended. “Move by yourself.”

They glare at one another for a few second before breaking into a fit of giggles, and Pidge reaches behind the passenger’s seat to haul her backpack up into her lap. “Seriously, though, thanks for everything,” she murmurs, sobering up after only a moment. “It really means a lot.”

Lance’s laughter dies on his lips along with Pidge’s and a sort of visible heavy-heartedness settles somewhere behind his eyes. “I know,” he says, though his voice is so quiet that the drumming of rain against the windshield very nearly drowns it out. “I just wish there was—”

“No,” Pidge counters, forcefully enough to startle Lance into looking up at her. “You don’t know. You have no idea.” Pidge’s teeth worry indents into her lower lip and she lets out a heavy sigh that sounds like it’s been locked away inside her chest for months on end. “If you knew, you wouldn’t keep downplaying what you’ve done for me as somehow not being good enough. Lance, you don’t understand how grateful I am—you’re literally the only person I have in this world anymore except for Shiro, who I haven’t even known for a full day. You, you’ve been with me through _everything_ , Lance, and I can’t even begin to explain how much it means to me. So stop acting like it’s not enough. Please. ‘Cause honestly, I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

Lance opens his mouth to protest, but seems to think better of it. Instead, he shakes his head and pulls Pidge into one final, brief hug. “Take care of yourself, okay?” he mumbles, and Pidge nods against his shoulder, allowing herself to take comfort in the closeness of her best friend until Lance’s grip loosens and she can pull away.

“I will.”

With a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, Pidge hoists her backpack over one shoulder and pushes open the door of the minivan, hastily scrambling for cover underneath the shingled roof of the cubby-like apartment building. From there, she waves goodbye to Lance, wondering if he can even see her through the sheets of rain assaulting his windshield. Pidge could swear she glimpses movement from beyond the rain-battered glass as the Pacifica pulls away, but perhaps it’s only her imagination.

Exhausted from the day’s events, Pidge heads up the little wooden staircase that leads to Shiro’s door. A quick glance at her phone reveals it to be 7:20, and she knows that Shiro will be home any minute. The inside of the apartment is so clean that it startles even Pidge as she nudges open the door and toes off her shoes—it’s a night and day difference from what they’d come home to less than twenty-four hours ago. Pidge just hopes she hasn’t overstepped her boundaries.

Blackie greets her with a chorus of obnoxious caterwauling that Pidge is pretty sure translates directly to, “you’re home, love me.” So she does, rubbing his ears and scratching at the base of his tail until he flops over into a boneless puddle of black, furry goo.

“What’d you do with the house to yourself, hm?” Pidge asks the limp feline as she discards her backpack in the guest room. “Intimidate bugs and hiss at your own reflection? Suck the soul out of a hapless infant? All normal cat stuff, I guess.” She settles on the sofa and Blackie casually sidles up next to her, purring and butting his head against her hands in a wordless demand for continued pets. With one hand on the cat’s back, Pidge gropes for the TV remote until she finds it underneath a throw pillow.

The front door opens.

Pidge has to admit, Shiro looks good in scrubs.

“Hey,” she greets with a lopsided smile. Blackie launches himself off the couch and into oblivion, or at least some cat-sized hidey hole somewhere, a rather drastic overreaction to his master’s return. Cats.

“Hey! Sorry I had to leave so early; there was a reschedule and—” Shiro cuts himself abruptly when he looks up, eyes wide and lips parted in utter disbelief as he takes in the sight of the spotless apartment. Pidge bites the inside of her cheek to stifle a giggle, watching Shiro’s gaze flit from the living room to the kitchen, then linger in the dining room as though he’s trying to piece together what has become of Laundry Mountain. When he finally turns back to Pidge, he’s speechless, sputtering for a second before shutting up entirely. His eyes ask a thousand questions, and Pidge smiles somewhat awkwardly.

“I hope it’s okay,” she murmurs, a sudden anxiety causing her to hold the TV remote tighter and fidget with the rubbery buttons. “I wanted to do something to thank you for letting me stay here, and that was the only thing I could think of.” When Shiro doesn’t reply, instead practically staring through her, Pidge shrinks back against the sectional, teeth digging into her lip. “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to imply that your living space was dirty or anything—I really just wanted to help, that’s all. I wasn’t trying to insult you or—”

“No,” Shiro cuts in, still looking nothing short of baffled, and Pidge quiets. “I’m not mad. Not at all.” He blinks and casts another sweeping glance over the entirety of the newly-cleaned space. “I’m just trying to figure out what sort of witchcraft you used to do all of this in the amount of time that I was gone.”

“I went to Lance’s to get my stuff, too,” Pidge points out, and Shiro shakes his head, stymied.

“Incredible,” he sighs, but there’s a smile on his face. “Thank you, Pidge. Truly—you have no idea how much I appreciate it. I’ll do my best to keep it this way so that your efforts don’t go to waste.”

Pidge feels a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck in response to the praise. Shiro’s tone is so kind and genuine that it’s almost impossible to feel bad about herself when he’s addressing her. What she wouldn’t do for that kind of charm.

“It was nothing, really,” she replies, modest. “I’m just happy to be able to give back, if only a little. You’re the one doing me the favor, after all.”

“Even so, thank you,” Shiro says again. His smile is warm, contagious. “Now, then; are you hungry? I think it’s about dinner time.”

Shiro’s words instantly remind Pidge of the untouched twenty she found with the note he left for her that morning, as well as the fact that she hasn’t eaten since she talked to Lance on the phone. As if on cue, her stomach growls, long and low and loud enough for Shiro to hear it. There’s a beat of silence before they both burst into laughter.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Shiro wheezes, grinning as he pulls out his cell phone. “What sounds good?”

“Pizza’s fine.” Pidge’s reply is instant. “Or whatever, really. I didn’t actually order anything for lunch—it’s a wonder Blackie’s survived this long, as hungry as I am.”

Shiro snorts to cover another laugh. “Pizza it is. Extra anchovies?”

“I actually like anchovies.”

“Alright, now I _know_ something’s wrong with you.”

They order pizza and, as an afterthought, a dozen assorted cookies from a specialty delivery place that Pidge never knew existed. It isn't long before the apartment smells of melted cheese and garlic crust and they’re loading freshly-washed plates up with food to be eaten in front of the TV. Pidge is grabbing each of them a bottle of water from the fridge when she hears Shiro flipping through TV channels in search of something to watch. Not really paying attention to the tidbits of speech that come and go with each press of the button, Pidge returns to Shiro’s side and passes him one of the bottles.

“And now for tonight’s top story.” Shiro has paused his channel surfing on the evening news, where a grave-looking reporter in her mid-thirties sits alone behind a desk, her gaze locked on the camera. “A young woman who appeared to deliberately walk straight into oncoming traffic early this morning has died.”            


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I wanted it to, but hey, I'm alive.  
> Feel free to yell at me for my inconsistency on the Tumblr (@Teravoltron).

_“A young woman who appeared to deliberately walk straight into oncoming traffic early this morning has died.”_

The reporter’s facial expression is blank, her eyes hollow and the words she speaks mechanical, devoid of any emotion. It’s almost as though Pidge is watching a soulless mannequin on the screen, and she wonders if that’s what being a reporter is: a career formed out of the necessity to break the news of tragedy to millions of onlooking strangers, of becoming so accustomed to the misfortune of the world that it doesn’t even register anymore.

If Pidge is being perfectly honest, it sound like nothing less than a decent option.

But it isn’t the reporter’s dead stare that freezes Pidge’s hand mid lift, a slice of pizza only inches from her mouth. It isn’t even the headline. It’s what comes after, when the camera cuts away. A portrait of a woman that Pidge almost doesn’t recognize solely because here, in the photo chosen to represent her life to the world at the very end of it, she’s smiling.

Pidge wants to glance at Shiro, to look for an inkling of the same recognition on his face. To see if he, too, can pull a day-old memory of unkind words, mascara-stained cheeks and abandoned roses from a likeness taken from a different lifetime—one in which the woman in the photo could still find it in herself to smile.

Alessa Montgomery.

So Pidge had been wrong—her name wasn’t Jacqueline.

“At roughly 4:15 AM, first responders were dispatched to Avery Road following a call to emergency services about what was described to be a ‘horrific’ traffic accident. It was there that Alessa Montgomery, according to multiple eyewitnesses, walked directly into oncoming traffic and was hit by a southbound pickup truck going approximately 45 miles per hour. Montgomery sustained significant head trauma and was rushed to the hospital by ambulance, where despite intense medical efforts, she succumbed to her injuries and passed away earlier this evening. The driver of the pickup, uninjured, claims that by the time he saw Montgomery in the street, it was too late. No charges have been filed, and Montgomery’s death has been ruled a suicide. Witnesses say—”

Pidge feels a surge of nausea engulf her like a tidal wave, tendrils of it forcing their way down her throat to suffocate and gag her. She drops the slice of pizza back onto her plate, which she barely thinks to set aside before her trembling hands lose it completely and ruin Shiro’s carpet. With that crisis narrowly averted, Pidge squeezes her eyes shut in a vain attempt to block out the face of Alessa Montgomery. Her stomach threatens her with lurching movements, anxiety taking root there and blooming toxic flowers that choke her and rob her of breath. Pidge feels its vines wind their way around her neck and creep into her brain, thorny things that prick her eyes like the tears that begin trickling down her cheeks without her knowledge or permission.

Through cotton-stuffed ears, she listens to strangers recount the final moments of a woman who had given up on life. A woman Pidge watched flee their shared space less than twenty-four hours prior—a woman to whom Pidge never gave a second thought once she’d departed, with the exception of a sympathetic glance at a bouquet of discarded roses.

“Turn it off.” Her voice sounds strangled in her own ears, muffled by the maze of panic-fed vines cluttering her head, clogging her throat.

“Pidge—” She can barely hear Shiro, wonders if he’s really even there or if the terror pulsing through her veins is playing a cruel joke on her.

_“Turn it off!”_ A demand. A desperate plea.

The TV dies with the sob on Pidge’s lips, brief static accompanying a garbled, choked-off sound of pure and undiluted agony. Seeking relief from the clawing thorns of hysteria, Pidge draws her knees to her chest. Part of her hopes that she can crush the malicious weed flourishing inside her, nourished by her pain, thriving on her anguish. The sharp prickle of thorns—more tears—quickly dispels that thought, waving it away like wisps of smoke.

A hand grazes her shoulder. Pidge lashes out, violently slapping it away. She doesn’t mean to, but her movements are guided by the tendrils of anxiety that have coiled around her arms and legs. She is its puppet, and she dances for it against her will.

In the silence of the apartment, Pidge lets her panic attack run its course. Somewhere beneath the layers of fear encasing her like a shell, she knows that soon enough, the plant will die. Its vines will loosen their grip on her insides and recede to lie dormant once again. Even then, that knowledge does nothing to calm her. So she focuses on the presence next to her, the presence of Shiro, who either doesn’t know what to do or knows exactly what _not_ to do—Pidge doesn’t know which, but she finds it in herself to be thankful either way.

Eventually, after what feels like a small eternity, Pidge’s breathing evens out, terror’s cruel blooms dissolving from her lungs like dandelions thrown into a fire. She doesn’t unfurl herself from the perfect ball she’s created—she isn’t ready for that just yet, isn’t ready to feel so exposed, so raw. But her ears are clear enough now to hear a gentle, yet hesitant voice.

“Pidge? I’m going to put my hand on your back, alright?”

Pidge doesn’t answer him, but the announcement makes the follow through somehow less threatening. It gives her a moment to prepare for Shiro’s palm, warm between her shoulderblades, and Pidge doesn’t shy away from the touch this time. Instead she focuses on timing her breathing with the rhythmic, soothing back and forth of Shiro’s hand from the spot between her shoulders to the small of her back.

Back. Inhale. Forth. Exhale. Back. Inhale. Forth...

It’s a constant amid the chaos. Order where there is none. Pidge is more grateful for it than she knows how to express.

“There’s some water here for you,” Shiro tells her, hand pausing momentarily as he shifts to locate the bottle. Pidge feels wet plastic brush her knuckles where her fingers are clenched around her shins—it’s not so much an offering as a reminder, droplets of condensation lingering on her skin even when the bottle is long gone. Pidge’s hands twitch, fingertips digging into her calves.

It’s a slow process, returning from that dark of a place. But it does happen, sure as the moon and its inevitable rise. Pidge’s too-tense muscles relax, one by one, leaving her sore as her trembling slows to an occasional shudder. When, at last, she lifts her forehead from her knees, she swears she hears Shiro sigh with relief.

Pidge opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. No sooner does she close it than Shiro nudges the bottle of water against her fingers again, silently urging her to take a drink. Afraid of what she might sound like if she doesn’t, Pidge accepts and downs a good two-thirds of the bottle’s contents in only a few seconds before drawing in a long, shaky breath.

“Sorry.” Even with the water, she cringes at her own raspy tone, the way her raw voice grates against her throat.

“Don’t be.”

The words come immediately, and they cause Pidge to wince. Shiro is so willing to forgive, to take everything that Pidge throws at him and still be ready for more. His kindnesses lodge themselves like shards of glass in her heart and fill her with a strange sense of foreboding, of dread. When will enough be enough? When will her burdens become too much for Shiro to want to shoulder any longer? When will he finally give up on Pidge like she’s given up on herself?

Shiro’s palm finds her back again, and Pidge lets out a shaky sigh that feels like it comes all the way from the soles of her feet. The trembling hasn’t entirely subsided just yet, and Pidge wishes it just as soon would. It makes her feel weak.

“She didn’t have to die like that,” Pidge whispers. The memory of Alessa Montgomery’s face feels like a sandbag being dropped on Pidge’s shoulders, folding her over beneath its weight and forcing the air from her lungs. “She didn’t have to. I should have—”

“Don’t. There wasn’t anything you could have done for her.” Shiro sounds troubled, and Pidge doesn’t dare look up at his face. “There’s no way you could have known what she was going to do, Pidge.”

“You don’t know that,” Pidge whispers miserably, resting her cheek against her knees. “Nobody in that restaurant said a word to her—they... _we.._. watched her get humiliated, then let her go without a second thought.”

Shiro seems to sit on that for a while, contemplating. His facial expression is sorrowful, but not guilty. Pidge closes her eyes, not wanting him to see the sheer magnitude of the anguish lingering behind them. “I may not know the full extent of that woman’s situation,” Shiro says finally. “But I don’t think that she did what she did because of what transpired in that restaurant.” He sighs, and even without looking, Pidge knows he’s running a tired hand through messy hair, slumping down against the back of the sofa. “No one but Alessa knew for sure, but... I think the real reason was a wound much deeper than that which she suffered last night. A culmination of new wounds and past scars, perhaps—building up and building up until it wasn’t something she wanted to live with any longer. Maybe... she felt as though she deserved to die.”

Pidge bristles, white hot fury lancing through her and making her already-raw voice break when she raises it. “How can you say that?! Nobody deserves to die!”

Shiro, however, doesn’t flinch. “Of course not,” he replies calmly. “But that’s easy for us to say. After all, someone who has never wanted to die would find it difficult to understand the mindset of somebody whose guilt weighs so heavily on them that each and every day is a struggle. Someone who feels so low that they don’t think they should be allowed to continue living.”

Somehow, Pidge gets the feeling that they aren’t talking about Alessa Montgomery anymore. Her father’s face flashes before her mind’s eye, reminds her that up until the very end, she somehow never knew that anything was amiss. Not until it was too late.

“Who says I’ve never wanted to die?” Pidge mumbles, mostly to herself. Nonetheless, Shiro doesn’t miss it, and Pidge doesn’t miss the way he glances at her, as though validating her very existence.

“You’re still here, though,” he points out once he’s returned his gaze to the ceiling. “That counts for something—the fact that even if the thought crossed your mind, you’ve never wished for death strongly enough to pursue it.” He pauses, then smiles a little at the ceiling fan. “I’m glad for that, by the way.”

When Pidge doesn’t reply, Shiro takes a deep breath, letting it out in yet another gusty sigh. “Pidge, do you resent your father for taking his own life?”

Pidge feels her skin prickle with shock at how forthright the question is. Still, she supposes that it’s been a long time coming, even if a long time only means a single, lengthy day. “No,” she finally murmurs. “I guess most people might—he left my mother and me in an unimaginably difficult position. It was... selfish of him. But I don’t hate him for it. I hate myself for not being able to stop him. For not seeing what he was about to do, for not recognizing the signs. If I’d realized, if I’d said something to him about it, then he’d still be—”

“Is that why you feel so guilty over Alessa’s death? Why it caused you to have a panic attack?” Shiro interrupts, that same ever-thoughtful look present on his face. It tugs his brows together in the center and digs his teeth into the very corner of his lower lip. “Because you felt as though you could have stopped it from happening if some imaginary condition had been met?” He turns to Pidge, then, sitting up straight and looking her right in the eye. “Pidge... You couldn’t have known. In either case. People with intentions such as these are very good at hiding them. Because more often than not, they’ve had a lot of practice. You are not responsible for their deaths, and you can’t continue to shoulder this guilt when it isn’t even yours to bear.”

Pidge turns her head away, unable to stand the intensity of Shiro’s eyes. “What do you know...?”

That gets Shiro to smile again, though the same melancholy look stays behind, poorly buried beneath it. “Like I said before, a thing or two.” His hand finds its way to Pidge’s back again, warm and gentle between her shoulderblades.

Pidge doesn’t understand what it is about Shiro that makes her so willing to open up to him, to tell him things she’s never told anybody else. Things she hasn’t even told Lance, to whom she’s closer than anybody else she can even begin to think of. It’s infuriating how effortlessly Shiro, a near-stranger, coaxes her deepest worries from her, how a man she barely knows has managed, in less than twenty-four hours, to become Pidge’s greatest confidant.

Pidge turns back to Shiro, but focuses her full attention on his collarbone rather than his face. “It’s the same way with Matt,” she mumbles, her voice muffled by the way her knee presses into her cheek. “I never stop thinking about it. If only I’d been able to stop him from leaving, if only I’d tried harder—what could I have said to dissuade him, to keep him home? It just feels like I could have prevented... all of it.”

“That’s a normal part of dealing with grief,” Shiro assures her. “Thinking of all the ways that tragedy could have been avoided. But what good does that do when no matter how much we bargain or beg or lament, we as human beings just aren’t capable of changing the past?”

Pidge doesn’t reply. She knows that he’s right, of course—no matter how many imaginary scenarios play out in her head, they’ll always be just that: imaginary. No amount of ‘what if’ will ever be able to bring her father or brother back.

“That’s why,” Shiro continues, “it’s important for us to focus on the future instead of dwelling on the past. Instead of thinking of what you could have done differently, focus on what you can do, how you can live your life to make both of them proud. Because I can promise you this—neither Matt nor your father would want you to shoulder the guilt of their passing. That isn’t something they’d want to see you carry with you for the rest of your life. They’d want you to be happy, Pidge.”

A silence finds its way between them, then, as Pidge mulls over everything Shiro has said. She thinks of Matt, how close they always were. She thinks of past holidays—birthdays and Christmases together, all smiles and laughter and love. She thinks of disagreements, fights and their aftermath, and of their inability to ever remain mad at one another for more than a day. She thinks of her father, of first steps and first bike rides, all caught on film. Of hugs that dispelled nightmares, vanquished monsters and healed scraped knees. Pidge thinks of the two of them, watching over her from a place she can’t see. And in that moment, no matter how temporary, she feels at peace.

 “I don’t get it,” Pidge murmurs eventually, breaking the silence between them. She wraps her arms around her torso as though attempting to hold herself together so that Shiro no longer has to. “Why are you being so nice to me? It doesn’t make any sense...”

Shiro blinks in surprise, but then his gaze softens. “Why doesn’t it?” he asks, half a grin forming on his lips. “I told you—I’m trying to fill my monthly quota.” When Pidge glances dubiously at him, Shiro winks. “Honestly,” he says after a moment, his tone thoughtful. “I don’t think I need a reason. Not every act of kindness has an ulterior motive attached, y’know.”

“I dunno,” Pidge sighs. “It seems like these days, no one does anything for anyone else without expecting something in return.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Shiro leans in and ruffles Pidge’s hair with a huge hand. “Well,” he decides, his grin full-blown and blatant now. “That’s all the more reason to kick that mentality’s ass, right? To spread kindness, no holds barred. All Smiles, No Strings. We’ll start a company.”

That smile is contagious, and before she knows it, Pidge is laughing. Her shoulders tremble with it—the good kind of tremble this time, a result of joy rather than anxiety. As she carries on, Shiro inevitably joins in, a deep bass chuckle that compliments Pidge’s softer, higher voice. Egged on by one another’s glee, it’s a good few minutes before the two of them manage to calm themselves. And even when they do, the gloomy atmosphere that had settled over the apartment is long, long gone.

“This may sound a little weird,” Pidge says once she’s unfurled herself from her protective ball. Her back is sore from hunching over for so long, her neck stiff and achy, but she can’t find it in herself to care. “But can I hug you?”

Instead of a verbal reply, Shiro wordlessly opens his arms to Pidge in invitation, that same lopsided grin playing on his lips. Elated, Pidge scoots closer, lets her arms wind around Shiro’s torso and her head rest comfortably against his chest. She hums in appreciation when Shiro’s muscular arms envelop her like a cocoon, warm and strong and somehow familiar. Beneath her cheek, Pidge can feel the steady, even rhythm of Shiro’s heartbeat. It comforts her like a lullaby, and very nearly soothes her to sleep.

They stay like that for an untold amount of time, until Pidge draws away and takes a deep, cleansing breath. When she looks up at Shiro, at the tiny, lingering smile that Pidge takes as an assurance that everything is going to be alright, she knows that it’s a direct response to the one on her own lips—a hesitant yet hopeful look that she’s sure communicates her wish for as much to be true.

And for the first time, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, it might be.

-

The next couple of days are easy ones. Pidge has the apartment to herself while Shiro is at work, and she swears it’s like her own vacation home in that it’s fully equipped with Netflix, wifi and, best of all, peace and quiet. With the exception of Blackie incessantly meowing at her for food, anyway, because the tragedy of being able to see the bottom of his dish through the muzzle-sized hole he always eats out of the kibble is a consistently-sufficient reason for the cat to go into absolute hysterics. Constantly and without fail.

It’s nice, having an obnoxious cat and Shiro’s inability to put his socks in the damn hamper with the rest of his clothes at the very top of Pidge’s list of problems—especially when they’ve taken the place of drunken screaming and having to worry about whether or not it’s safe to come home every day. From time to time, guilt settles in, gnaws at the back of Pidge’s mind like a swarm of termites trying to eat away at her fragilely stable emotional state. Why should she be allowed to relax like this when her mother is still suffering the emotional trauma of the past few months? Is she being heartless by leaving—by taking herself out of a bad situation at the expense of her mother’s feelings?

The first time she voices these thoughts to Shiro, he actually stops mixing flour into the cookie dough he’s making and comes to sit across from her on the ottoman.

“You do not need to feel guilty for moving on and being happy,” he tells Pidge, and the intensity of his gaze combined with the absolute conviction with which he speaks makes her believe him.

-

Four days after that fateful late-night breakfast, however, Pidge is hit with yet another bombshell—another addition to her growing collection. It comes in the form of an email from her university, polished and official-looking as they tend to be. But the school’s colorful crest and the neat layout of the email’s body belie the devastating message therein, and as Pidge’s eyes scan the lines of text, she feels her heart sink into the deepest pit of her stomach.

_Katie Holt_

_Due to an unusually high volume of new student enrollments this coming school year, we are experiencing a shortage of space in campus dormitories. As such, the decision has been made to prioritize freshmen and students attending from out of state when assigning students to dormitory housing. Unfortunately, since you are not a freshman, have not utilized student housing during any prior semester of your ongoing enrollment, and your permanent residence is within walking distance of campus, you have been deemed ineligible to be placed within the campus dormitories this year._

_Should the need arise, we encourage you to look into and consider other forms of on-campus housing such as our campus apartments. You will be eligible to reapply for dormitory housing next year, should you wish to do so._

_Sorry for any inconvenience._

_-Caroline Mcauliffe, Department of Student Affairs_

Pidge stares, numb, at the second to last line, and her voice sounds strangely foreign to her as she reads it aloud. “Sorry for any inconvenience,” it says, as though those insincere words are supposed to quell the nausea beginning to turn and twist her stomach into knots. Doing her absolute best to fight back the panic rising like bile in her throat, she pushes her laptop off her lap and onto the couch for the sudden fear that if she doesn’t get the device as far away from her person as humanly possible, she may throw it out and/or through Shiro’s apartment window and into the pond below.

The next few minutes, though they feel like a literal eternity, are spent pacing the length of Shiro’s living room back and forth, head spinning. What is she supposed to do now? She can’t afford a campus apartment, not that she could lease one on such short notice even if she had all the money in the world and could somehow manage to find two or three roommates in the span of the next three days. Three days. Three days until classes start. Three days until the day Pidge promised Shiro she’d be out of his apartment and his hair. What can she possibly do in seventy-two hours?

Nothing. That’s the only answer she can come up with. Absolutely nothing. Her only option is to return home, to face her mother and deal with the ugly reality of her foreseeable future. Pidge’s fingertips dig into her scalp as she tugs at her hair, wracking her brain for literally any other alternative—anything but going back. Anything, anything, any—

Pidge freezes mid-pace, head jerking up when the sound of the front door opening breaks into her frantic, jumbled thoughts. Shiro is back, and it doesn’t even occur to Pidge that he shouldn’t be until he brandishes a fast food bag and she realizes he must be on his lunch break.

“Hey!” Shiro’s grin does little by way of soothing the invisible dread prickling Pidge’s skin like needles. She wonders, vaguely, just how worthy of an institution she looks in that moment, and prays to any deity that might be listening that she looks a hell of a lot more composed than she actually is.

Unfortunately, Shiro is quick to catch on that something isn’t quite right, and his brows knit together with concern as he sets the bag of food on the table where Blackie leaps up to sniff at it. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

Pidge opens her mouth to reply, then closes it again. She casts a fleeting glance back at her laptop. “No...?” It comes out sounding like a question, and Pidge winces at how obviously contradictory her tone is. “No. Everything is... fine. Just fine.”

“Katie.”

“Don’t call me that,” Pidge snaps, more forcefully than she means to. She glares deliberately past him at Blackie, who is pawing aggressively at the brown paper bag in the hopes of getting through to its contents. Shiro only ever calls her Katie when he wants her to know exactly how serious he is, and Pidge hates the way it makes him sound so... fatherly. “You’re not my dad.”

Shiro doesn’t respond, simply waiting for her to give in and tell him what he wants to know, and Pidge feels the budding frustration in her chest burst into full bloom in an instant. Because she knows as well as Shiro does that she _will_ give in, will tell him _exactly_ what’s bothering her because that’s just the sort of effect Shiro has on people. Pidge can’t stand it, and yet, she loathes to think where she’d be without him and his uncanny ability to get her to open up whether she wants to or not.

Pidge sighs. “The cat’s got your barbecue sauce,” she remarks flatly, nodding toward the dining room where Blackie has cleared the obstacle of the paper bag and is now happily batting a sealed container of sauce back and forth across the wooden tabletop. Shiro does a double take, groans animatedly and snatches the sauce back before sweeping the furry menace off the table altogether. Blackie lands with a soft _thud_ on the carpet, hisses, then skitters into the hall and out of sight. Pidge feels an involuntary smile tug at the corner of her mouth as she crosses the room to settle at the table with a newly-exasperated Shiro.

“I got an email from the school,” she volunteers, taking one of the boxes of chicken nuggets out of the shredded mess Blackie’s made of the bag. Shiro’s gaze flickers toward her in reply, and though he doesn’t interrupt, Pidge doesn’t continue right away. She shoves a nugget into her cup of ranch sauce, effectively drowning it and then observing her work to avoid speaking until she can find the right words. Fortunately, Shiro is a very patient man; he doesn’t pry, instead tossing a French fry onto the carpet for Blackie. Pidge thinks about telling him that table food is like 90% of the reason that Blackie is such an asshole, but when she opens her mouth, the more relevant issue takes involuntary precedence. “My request to move into the dorms was denied,” she blurts. “Something about not having enough room and me being super low on the priority list because my ‘permanent residence’ is close by.” Rather than eat the chicken nugget in her hand, Pidge drops it back into the sauce cup and settles back in her chair, expression nothing short of miserable. “So... yeah. There’s that. Super good news, right?” She huffs out a sardonic laugh.

Shiro doesn’t respond right away. Pidge can tell that he’s digesting the news—it’s visible in how he chews at the inside of his cheek, forehead creased with the way his eyebrows pull together. “That’s... a problem,” he says finally, and his expression tells Pidge that he’s angry at himself for failing to come up with a more helpful or at least somewhat-soothing response.

“Yeah,” Pidge answers, equally lamely. She finally picks up the abandoned nugget, now soggy from just how much ranch it’s absorbed. She briefly considers tossing it to Blackie, but thinks better of it considering that the sauce-drenched abomination must be 400 calories in and of itself.

There’s a long, semi-awkward silence that passes between the two of them, then. Pidge feels guilty for how incredibly not-hungry she is, considering that Shiro spent the money to buy her food and even left work to come home and eat with her. She wishes she could fight back the nausea churning her stomach, pretend just for a few minutes that everything is okay so that she can enjoy the meal and conversation the way she’s sure Shiro intended. Instead, here she is, struggling to hold it together and unable to bring herself to take a single bite.

“Sorry,” Pidge murmurs after another moment of verbal nothingness, and nudges the box of nuggets toward the center of the table. “I don’t feel all that well right now. I’ll definitely eat later, though—”

“Stay here,” Shiro interrupts, and his gaze is just as intense as the night he told Pidge that it isn’t a crime to move on and be happy. Even so, Pidge stares, stunned. There’s absolutely no way she could possibly have heard that right.

“You... can’t be serious,” she manages once she’s picked her jaw up off the floor. When Shiro doesn’t budge, Pidge balks. “Shiro, I can’t do that.”

“You can, because I’m offering,” Shiro argues, insistent. “We have an extra room—it’ll work. We’ll _make_ it work, Pidge.”

“What about Allura?” Pidge challenges. “She’ll be home in two days—”

“And we’ll have you moved in in one,” Shiro finishes resolutely. “I meant what I said, Pidge; I am not letting you go back to a place where your physical and emotional well-being are constantly in danger. I signed up for this when I invited you into my home and I am _damn_ sure not backing out on you now.”

Pidge is, in a word, hesitant. Does she appreciate Shiro’s gusto? His willingness to put himself out to ensure that she has someplace safe and warm to stay? Of course she does—how couldn’t she? Shiro has done so much for Pidge already, yet he still rises to meet each new challenge with a readiness beyond atypical of a near stranger.

Sensing her reluctance, Shiro smiles. “I’m serious,” he murmurs in a tone so reassuring that Pidge feels a significant portion of the tension leave her body of its own volition. “Call Lance—ask him if he’s free to help us go get your things from your mom’s place tomorrow. I’ve a feeling we’ll need a bit of backup anyhow, yeah?”

For some reason Pidge can’t quite put her finger on, the way he phrases it makes her laugh. It’s a sound not entirely free of stress, but light enough that it feels pleasant rather than forced. At Shiro’s prompting, she pulls out her phone and dials Lance, putting him on speaker. He answers on the fourth ring.

_"¿Cómo están, bitchachos?"_

“You’re on speaker,” Pidge deadpans. “Shiro’s here.”

“That would’ve been fantastic to know fifteen seconds ago.” At the very least, Lance has the decency to sound embarrassed.

“Well, maybe—and this is just a suggestion, but just _maybe_ you shouldn’t kick off phone conversations with words like _‘bitchachos.’_ ”

“I don’t tell you how to live your life,” Lance huffs, and Pidge catches Shiro trying desperately to reign in his laughter by covering his mouth with one hand.

“Anyway,” Pidge intones with an impressive eyeroll that it’s a pity Lance can’t be there to see. “Remember how you said you’d help me move?”

“That was before you insulted my mom’s license plate.”

“Lance, I swear to God—”

“Okay, okay, geez! No sense of humor,” Lance gripes. “Why are we even friends? And yes, I remember. The offer still stands. Even though it shouldn’t. Because you insulted my mom’s license plate.”

“Good,” Pidge replies, choosing to ignore Lance’s other remarks. “Does tomorrow work?”

“I thought move-in day was later this week?” Lance sounds a little distracted now, like he’s going over his entire schedule in his head. “Mari’s got a soccer game tomorrow, but I could do it beforehand. Or after...hand? Y’know, like, any time that isn’t between four-ish and six-ish.”

“Sounds great. Ish.” Pidge’s relief takes the form of a smile. “Thanks, Lance.”

“’Course. But do I get an explanation as to why you suddenly need to move three days earlier than we planned? Did you find the sex dungeon—?”

Pidge swears she’s never ended a phone call so abruptly. When she chances a look at Shiro, he has one eyebrow raised up to his hairline.

“Sex dungeon?”

Pidge lets out the breath she’d been holding since hanging up on Lance. “Don’t ask.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing anymore.

Sleep does its damnedest to elude Pidge that night, the knowledge that she’ll have to face her mother the following morning acting as a ball and chain shackled to her ankle to keep her from chasing after it. She manages to doze off once, several hours after tucking in for the night, but restless thoughts plague her even then. It seems like only moments before she wakes herself up by accidentally lashing out and kicking Blackie off her bed. Outraged, the cat hisses at her before disappearing beneath the bed skirt, and Pidge feels any hope of getting a decent night’s sleep vanish into the shadows along with him. She figures her best bet at that point is to make use of the TV in her room, let sleep come on its own rather than continue to actively seek it out. Surprisingly enough, that seems to do the trick; a couple of episodes into ‘How Stuff Works,’ Pidge slips comfortably beneath the blanket of unconsciousness.

The real problem arises when Pidge wakes in the morning, unprompted by any alarms and with too much sunlight streaming in through the blinds. She fumbles for her phone, which should be hiding somewhere in the mass of covers piled on and around her, but doesn’t find it.

“What the actual hell?” Pidge gripes at no one in particular. She locates the TV remote on the desk next to her bed, then belatedly realizes that the TV isn’t even on; rather than the passive-aggressive ‘are you still watching?’ Netflix message she expects to find, the screen is a solid black. Pidge doesn’t remember turning it off, so unless she’s been hit by some kind of Men in Black voodoo, Shiro must have come in at some point to do it himself. That makes sense, Pidge decides, especially when she catches sight of her phone on the desk as well. She knows for a fact that she fell asleep with it in her hand.

Pidge has exactly zero “get up, you lazy shit” notifications, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. In her infinite mental exhaustion, she’s set all of her alarms for PM rather than AM. Alarms that don’t go off, unsurprisingly, are alarms that don’t wake Pidge up. But at the very least, she thinks, if she somehow slips into a coma between now and this evening, she’ll have an obnoxious 8-bit ringtone to rouse her at 9:45. And 9:50. And 9:55, and so forth. However, as of right now, it’s 12:37 in the afternoon, and Pidge hates herself.

A hatred that immediately transfers itself to Shiro when Pidge wanders out of her bedroom to find him awake and sipping coffee in front of the TV. He looks up when she lets out a sound of protest that’s halfway between a whine and a yawn.

“Dude, _why_ didn’t you wake me up?!” Pidge demands, and her inner flame of rage flares to burn a thousand times brighter when Shiro regards her with amusement rather than guilt or shame.

“Because you looked super cozy?” he tries, and when Pidge crosses her arms, she’s met with a hearty laugh. “Okay, okay. Lance called at around ten—I picked up your phone since, one, it was on the floor, and two, it didn’t look like the hard rock rendition of the Super Mario theme was going to wake you from the dead anytime soon.”

Pidge is painfully aware of the blush that spreads over the bridge of her nose. “The point, please?”

Shiro chuckles under his breath and sets down his coffee mug. “Lance said that his sister’s soccer game was cancelled—apparently two-thirds of her team has come down with some sort of stomach flu. He wanted to know when he should show up, and I recommended later this afternoon so that you could get a bit more rest before we head out. He’ll be meeting us around three.”

Pidge blinks, silently digesting that information.

“There’s more coffee in the kitchen,” Shiro offers. “And a new bottle of hazelnut creamer, you absolute heathen.”

“Thanks,” murmurs Pidge. She exhales heavily, shoulders sagging with relief. “For like, all of the things you just said.” It’s a small load off her shoulders, knowing that she’ll have the next few hours to mentally prepare herself for what’s to come. And while she isn’t looking forward to the confrontation whatsoever, this is definitely preferable to being thrown right into the madness of it all.

“Don’t mention it.”

Feet dragging with exhaustion that errs more on the side of mental than physical, Pidge makes her way into the kitchen. The coffee is still hot—at least, it is until Pidge dumps half a cup of ice-cold creamer into it. She watches the two liquids mix, admiring the swirls with as much awe as a tired college student in need of coffee can conjure up from the depths of her tired soul.

“Art,” she mutters of the drink before downing the entire cup in a grand total of three seconds.

Pidge showers, contemplates the meaning of life, and dresses, in that order. Once she’s dried her hair, she steals a couple of hair bands not from Allura, but from Blackie, who she’s pretty sure hoards the damned things like a tiny dragon, in order to secure it in two low braids.

Lance shows up at 3:07 with the legendary MCF4M Chrysler Pacifica, and it’s go time.

With Lance behind the wheel, Shiro riding shotgun and Pidge sitting cross-legged on top of the folded-down back seat, the three of them set out to face the challenge ahead. The ride to the Holt residence is a silent one, each of them intimately aware of just how serious the situation is. At least, until Shiro speaks up.

His first words to Lance, with the exception of, “Hi, I’m Shiro—thanks for your help today,” are as follows:

“You were never supposed to know about the sex dungeon.”

As Pidge dissolves into uncontrollable laughter in the back, Lance very nearly crashes the car.

Shiro’s witticism does wonders in terms of dispelling tension and lightening the overall mood. It isn’t as though their apprehension has vanished, exactly, but the jokes and laughter that follow Shiro’s kickoff (mostly at Lance’s expense), serve as both a distraction and a means of psyching themselves up to take on the task at hand. And when Lance finally pulls into the driveway, all three are in good spirits.

That being said, no one is in a hurry to get out of the car.

For a long moment, Pidge stares up at her childhood home—the place that carries the last twenty-one years of her life within its walls. She had sleepovers here, wrestled with Matt on the floor of the den and explored the darkest corners of the basement at night. Birthdays, Christmases, graduation... Pidge’s most pleasant memories are all tied to this place.

Back then, in another lifetime, it was her safe haven. But now, with crueler memories darkening its inner walls like bloodstains, Pidge can no longer bring herself to look at it the same way.

“Hey, Pidge.” It’s Lance’s voice that breaks Pidge out of her reverie. He’s turned around in the driver’s seat and is regarding her with a troubled but resolute gaze. “No matter what happens in there,” he murmurs, “we’re right behind you. Both of us,” he adds, with a quick side-glance at Shiro. “I know I joke around a lot, but I mean it when I say that I’m with you all the way, no matter how bad things get.”

The corners of Pidge’s mouth quirk up into a little smile, and Lance, not quite used to being so openly sincere, immediately becomes flustered. “So, uh, yeah—I just wanted you to, y’know, know that. That I’ve got your back. And stuff.”

Unable to help herself, Pidge’s smile blooms into a grin. “I already did.”

Lance quiets, teeth digging into his lower lip. And then he’s smiling, too. “Let’s do this.”

As the three of them exit the Pacifica and make their way up to the house, an early autumn breeze, carrying with it the cloyingly sweet scent of botanical decay, stirs the unkempt grass around their ankles. Pidge wonders if it’s an omen of sorts, a sign of what’s to come. Even so, she presses on, ignoring the feeling of foreboding that settles into her chest, summoned by the sound of her house key turning inside the lock.

A flurry of barks greets them at the door, the Holts’ bull terrier rounding the corner and pelting across the tile floor of the foyer at full speed. Pidge chuckles and squats down to scratch his ears when he slams into her shins, though her laughter is somewhat strained. She’ll likely never see him again after this. “Hey, buddy,” she manages, and the dog’s tail wags a mile a minute in reply.

After a good moment of stalling in the form of pats and belly rubs, Pidge straightens up again. She turns to look at Lance and Shiro, both of whom flank her like bodyguards. She almost laughs at the visual that accompanies that thought. Shiro would make a fantastic bodyguard with that physique. Lance, however, is scrawny enough that he’d be the one to need guarding. Nonetheless, she takes comfort in both their presence, in how steadfast and unfaltering they are in their willingness to be whatever she needs them to be. She draws courage from their determination, and as she heads for the living room, she makes it her own.

Colleen Holt sits alone on one of the couches, facing the door as though she’s been expecting visitors, if not Pidge herself. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap and she looks, in a few words, oddly at peace—serene, even. It frightens Pidge even more than if they’d walked in on her mother in the middle of another hysterical meltdown, and the phrase ‘calm before the storm’ echoes in the back of her mind like a mantra. A warning.

“Welcome home, sweetheart,” Colleen croons. She gets to her feet, swaying slightly, and in the same second, Pidge catches sight of an empty wine glass on the end table next to her. Beside it, an equally-empty bottle. The dog at her feet growls.

“Hey, mom.” Pidge’s shoulders are tense as Colleen takes a few unsteady, shuffling steps forward.

“Who are your friends, sweetie?” Colleen looks up at Shiro and Lance, brow furrowed in confusion like she’s only just noticed that her daughter isn’t alone. That’s when Pidge knows that it’s bad—her mother has met Lance many times. She babysat him for the McClains when he, Pidge and Matt were still small, and he was over more often than not before everything went to hell.

“You remember Lance,” Pidge reminds Colleen with an uneasy smile plastered on her lips. “And this is Shiro.”

“Lance, take the boxes upstairs and start packing. Clothes first,” Shiro murmurs, low enough to where only Lance and Pidge can hear him. Lance doesn’t argue, but he exchanges a look with Shiro before turning to disappear up the stairs with several cardboard boxes tucked beneath his arm. Colleen’s eyes follow him only briefly before she returns her attention to Pidge and Shiro.

“That’s lovely,” Colleen slurs, and Pidge feels a shiver crawl its way up her spine to grip the back of her neck like an icy, skeletal hand. “I knew you’d come back. You’ve always been such a good girl, Katie. You wouldn’t leave your poor mother to rot away by herself in this _dumpster of a house._ ” Her tone changes midway through the sentence, and so do her eyes. She spits the last few words as though they’ve left a permanently foul taste in her mouth, and her lips quirk into a smile that’s no longer saccharinely sweet, but downright venomous. “Right, darling?”

Pidge feels Shiro stiffen behind her, senses his unease even without turning around. She takes a deep breath. “Mom, we’ve... already been over this. I’m moving into the dorms at school. I already have a roommate and everything.” Pidge’s mother doesn’t need to know the full story, least of all that she’s moving in with a man she met less than a week ago. It isn’t as though Pidge wants to lie, but rather that circumstance demands it.

Colleen freezes. Her expression tightens and her fingertips drum listlessly against her forearm as she digests her daughter’s words. And then, to both Pidge’s and Shiro’s utter disbelief, she begins to laugh—a gleeful, tittering giggle that sounds nothing short of unhinged. Pidge feels that cold, unforgiving hand tighten around her throat.

“No,” Colleen says simply, an irrational twinkle in her eyes. “No, no, no... You’re not leaving me, Katie—you’re not going off on your own. You aren’t ready. Your place is here with me—with your mother. We’re a family, right? And families stick together.” As she speaks, her voice rises and falls unevenly in pitch and that same disturbed gleam makes itself ever more present.

“Mom, you’re so drunk...” Pidge whispers, forlorn. She can feel her heart sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of her stomach with each second that passes. Is this really what her mother has become? So unrecognizable in so short a time? “I can’t keep doing this—besides, I’m twenty-one. I can’t stay here forever. It’s time for me to get out on my own and—”

 _“No!”_ Colleen’s shriek is shrill and dangerous. Her hands find their way into her hair, fisting chunks of auburn until Pidge hears individual strands tear under the stress. “No, Katie. You can’t do this to me. How could you? How could you be so selfish?” Colleen’s bloodshot eyes dart back and forth between Pidge and Shiro, and Pidge isn’t sure what her mother is looking for—only that she doesn’t want her to find it.

“Please,” Pidge whispers, desperate. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, mom.”

“Doing what?” Colleen asks, her tone shifting back to neutral, a terrifying brand of artificial calm that Pidge finds even more unsettling than the fits of rage. She lowers her hands, and Pidge sees broken strands of hair caught in her clenched fists. “I’m not _doing_ anything, Katie.”

“Hurting yourself.” Pidge’s reply trembles along with her hands. “Drinking yourself into oblivion. It’s not normal, mom. It’s not healthy...”

“Hurting myself?” Colleen echoes, incredulous. “No, Katie. No, it’s you— _you’re_ the one hurting me. Threatening to leave me, just like your brother and your _bastard_ father. You’re so cruel, just like both of them. Don’t you care what happens to me? To your own mother?”

Pidge sees red. “Don’t you ever talk about them like that!” she snaps, anger boiling up like magma beneath her skin, splitting her open and burning her. She feels Shiro’s hand, an arctic breeze, ghost over her arm, feels her body turn to steam that fogs over her senses and makes her dizzy. “It’s nobody’s fault that you’re like this, mom. Not Matt’s, not dad’s... not mine. You’re only doing this to yourself. There are other ways to cope...”

“Pidge,” Shiro murmurs, low and even, one hand coming to rest on her shoulder. His touch grounds Pidge, helps her get her breathing back in check and force away the panic and anger threatening to begin their toxic waltz inside her head. “Why don’t you go on upstairs and help Lance?”

Pidge swallows the lump in her throat and nods, blinking back the tears that prickle the backs of her eyes. “Yeah. Okay.” She shakes herself out and turns away from her mother. “You too,” she tells Shiro, and he comforts her with the tiniest of smiles. “I’ll be up soon. Just get as much packed as you can in the meantime.”

Pidge hesitates only for a moment. She doesn’t want to leave Shiro alone with her mother, but at the same time she’s wholly aware that arguing with him is very nearly the same as bantering with a brick wall. Besides, Shiro is big, strong and smart—he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself. So Pidge heads for the stairs, focusing on what needs to be done instead of the enraged shouting that echoes through the stairwell after her.

“You ungrateful little bitch!” Colleen snarls, and Pidge knows fully well that in that moment, feigning ignorance is the best decision she can possibly make.

Lance looks unnerved when Pidge meets him in her bedroom. He glances over her shoulder like he expects Shiro to be right behind her, and even looks somewhat panicked when he realizes that she’s alone.

“He told me to come up and help you,” Pidge tells him after a series of deep breaths. “He’s a big boy—he can handle himself. Just... hurry. I don’t want to be here any longer than we have to.” With that, she begins stuffing clothes from her closet into a cardboard box, not bothering to fold a single article. Folding is a luxury, she decides, that can be forgone under circumstances such as these.

Clothes, shoes, games, books. Together, Lance and Pidge pack up the necessities in record time. Pidge fills her favorite messenger bag with all of her toiletries, fitting it across her chest to free up her hands. She and Lance lock eyes several times as they work to the morbid soundtrack of Colleen’s hysteria, but neither says a word.

Downstairs, Colleen’s drunken ire has reached a boiling point. Shiro remains where he is, standing there in the walkway to act as a physical barrier between the manic woman and the stairs leading to Pidge and Lance. Thankfully, Colleen has made no effort to go after her daughter, choosing instead to sob and shriek decreasingly-coherent insults and accusations in the general direction of the staircase as she paces the living room floor. Shiro doesn’t speak, nor does he make any attempt to soothe Colleen’s rage. Instead his gaze falls upon the empty wine bottle, now lying on its side on the plush white carpet. Both the catalyst and a casualty of Colleen’s rage, its former contents are nothing short of an accelerant, catching on the embers of her mental instability and nursing them into the raging inferno that’s burned her personality away before Shiro’s very eyes. He knows that there is no smothering that sort of blaze; the only option is to let Colleen burn herself out.

An abrupt silence jolts Shiro out of his thoughts and pulls his eyes from the abandoned bottle. Colleen’s hysterics have died down into nothingness, and for a split second, the slightest inklings of relief trickle into Shiro’s heart.

They don’t last.

Colleen is staring at him with frightening clarity for someone in such a state of intoxication, her eyes more focused than Shiro has ever seen them. The intensity of that gaze makes him feel small, makes his skin itch and his blood turn to ice in his veins. As though a hand has physically planted itself in the center of his chest and shoved, Shiro takes a step back.

“It’s your fault, isn’t it?” Colleen seethes, her voice dangerously composed and dripping venom on the carpet. “You’re the one that’s poisoned her mind, turned her against me! You’re the reason she’s turned her back on her family!”

Shiro can’t help the feeling of dread that encircles him like an impenetrable shroud of fog. Still, he bites the inside of his cheek, forces himself to stand up a little taller rather than shrink under that loathsome stare. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he says evenly, meeting Colleen’s eyes. “But I assure you, Pidge is her own person—I am not forcing her to do anything that she doesn’t wish to do.”

Colleen’s lips twitch into the beginnings of an inane smirk, and then she’s laughing. “Don’t lie to me. My Katie is a child. She would never do this to me—not my Katie. Not _my_ daughter.” Warily, Shiro’s eyes track Colleen as she crosses the living room again, mapping out a route made familiar by who knows how many hours of restless pacing. When she speaks again, there’s a lilt to her voice that Shiro can only liken to that of every single horror movie psychopath he’s ever witnessed. “Are you screwing her?”

The question catches Shiro so off guard that he sputters and chokes on his reply. “W-what—?! No—”

_“Liar!”_

Something explodes against the wall less than a few feet from Shiro’s head. The shock of the impact and the sound of shattering glass are so jarring that Shiro doesn’t realize what’s happened until he feels a thin but steady stream of blood trickle down his forehead and dye half his vision crimson. He lifts trembling fingertips to his hairline and they come away smeared with blood. His blood.

“What the hell—?” It hits him then, as he looks down at the shards of darkly-tinted glass littering the carpet at his feet. The wine bottle.

For a moment, neither Shiro nor Colleen moves. Colleen appears to be somewhat in shock of what she’s just done, and Shiro is reeling, focusing solely on not passing out because that’s literally the worst possible option in terms of ways this scenario could potentially end. Thankfully, Shiro manages to pull himself together first. He grits his teeth, presses his palm against the steadily-bleeding gash in his forehead and turns away from Colleen in favor of heading for the stairs. Behind him, Colleen crumples to the floor, anguished, haunting wails ripping themselves from her chest one after another until Shiro is convinced that a neighbor is going to call the police. If he’s being honest, perhaps that would be for the best.

Pidge is just packing up the last of her things—a framed photo of herself and Matt that she keeps on her desk and the large stuffed owl, affectionately named Owlbert Einstein, that he got her for her sixteenth birthday—when Shiro half-stumbles into the doorway. “Pidge, Lance, time to go,” he says quickly, and when Pidge looks up, she feels her heart stutter to what she’s convinced is a complete stop.

“Shiro—oh my god, is that _blood?!_ ”

“I’m fine,” Shiro grits out. “It’s just a scratch—but we have to go. Now. Do you have everything?” He glances at the three cardboard boxes they’ve packed full of Pidge’s belongings, and Lance nods, a good two shades paler than could be said of him only a moment ago.

“Good,” Shiro breathes. “Good; let’s get moving.” He starts toward one of the boxes, only for Pidge to place herself directly in his path. She’s shaking, and like Lance, is pale to the point of looking sickly.

“Not a chance,” she scolds, trying desperately to keep her voice even. “Lance and I will get the boxes. You need to get outside, pronto.”

“I can help,” Shiro hisses, and makes an attempt at sidestepping Pidge. She only shifts to further impede him.

“Shiro, you are actively bleeding out onto the carpet, and that’s _with_ your hand covering whatever sort of injury that is. Do you seriously think I’m going to let you carry a heavy-ass box down a flight of stairs?” Pidge is acutely aware of the fact that her voice is steadily rising in volume, but she’s powerless to stop it. “Now go before I kick your ass!”

Lance emerges from Pidge’s bathroom, then, shoving a clean washcloth into Shiro’s hand. “Pidge, go with him. Have him sit on the ground outside and put pressure on the wound. Call for an ambulance. I’ll bring the boxes out.”

“That isn’t necessary—” Shiro tries, but he’s suddenly being hustled out the door and down the stairs by a girl not even half his size and fueled by the power of adrenaline.

Pidge barely even registers the sound of her mother’s continued distress, entirely focused on getting Shiro out of the house. Lance is right behind them, one of the boxes in his arms. He loads it into the back of the Pacifica and disappears to retrieve another as Pidge eases Shiro into a sitting position in the overgrown grass.

“What happened?” Pidge demands, pulling out her cell phone. She isn’t sure whether to actually call for an ambulance or Google how to treat a head injury, and her thumbs hover anxiously over the screen as she glances between it and the half-dried blood on Shiro’s face.

“She threw an empty wine bottle at me,” Shiro murmurs, and he apparently hears Pidge’s breath catch in her throat, because he backtracks immediately. “She didn’t hit me,” he amends, pressing the washcloth in his hand firmly against his forehead. “It hit the wall and broke—I think one of the pieces caught me, that’s all.”

“’That’s all,’ he says,” Pidge wheezes, incredulous. “Shiro, if she’d hit you—”

“I don’t think she was trying to,” Shiro admits. He starts to pull his makeshift compress away to check on the wound, but thinks better of it when Pidge barks at him to “put that the hell back.”

Lance comes back with the second box not a minute later, and he’s just loading it up when he catches Pidge’s eye and nods down the road. Following his gaze, Pidge sees an ambulance racing toward them, tailed by two police cruisers. Torn between panic and relief, she shoots a questioning look at Lance, who shakes his head before jerking it back toward the neighboring residence. Following the gesture, Pidge can see an elderly woman peeking through her curtains at them, her expression somewhere between troubled and annoyed.

“Guess the neighbors beat us to it,” Lance remarks as he makes his way over to Pidge and Shiro, no doubt waiting to retrieve the third box until the details of the situation at hand have been sorted out with the authorities.

The ambulance screeches to a halt and produces two paramedics, who rush over and begin asking Shiro a volley of questions regarding the nature of his injury. Meanwhile, Lance steps to the side to speak with the police about what exactly has just gone down. It’s a harrowing ordeal all around, and Pidge surprises herself by somehow managing to keep it together as she helps explain to the EMTs why Shiro is bleeding from a head wound in the middle of her lawn. While one of them guides Shiro toward the ambulance for a closer look, Pidge stays behind with the other.

“My mom has a drinking problem,” she explains, arms crossed tightly over her chest as she glances back toward the house. Out of habit, she scuffs the toe of her sneaker rhythmically against the grass. “She’s really, super trashed right now, and she’s definitely not mentally stable.” Pidge’s voice wavers, and she pauses to take a deep breath and swallow the lump forming in her throat before continuing. “She already hurt Shiro—I’m honestly scared of what she’s going to do if she’s left alone.”

With a furrowed brow, the paramedic nods. “We’ll have a look as soon as Mooney is done treating your friend. Your mother—how often does this sort of thing happen with her?”

“How often does she get wasted or how often does she end up hurting someone because of it?” Pidge asks, if only for clarification, but it seems to tell the EMT—whose embroidered name patch reads ‘Maddox’—all he needs to know.

It turns out that, by some miracle, Shiro doesn’t need stitches. According to Amanda Mooney, one of the only women Pidge has ever seen pull off an undercut _that_ well, even minor head wounds like Shiro’s have a tendency to bleed a lot—thereby giving off the illusion that they’re far worse than they actually are. It’s an all-around relief, and Lance returns to the party just in time to congratulate a newly-bandaged Shiro on not dying.

While Maddox and Mooney head into the house to address the issue that is Colleen Holt, the two officers Lance has already spoken to pull Pidge and Shiro aside to collect their statements individually. Lance, having already been given clearance to do so, returns upstairs to retrieve the final box of Pidge’s belongings and load it into the Pacifica.

Shiro is adamant about not pressing charges, though the officers seem perplexed by his refusal. Colleen’s actions, they explain, very much fit the bill for an aggravated assault charge. But Shiro shakes his head, unmoved.

“I want her to get the help she needs,” he explains, even as Colleen’s enraged cries echo out of the house behind him. “Not go to prison. She’s not a bad woman—she’s been through a lot and she needs grief counseling, rehab and a means of getting her life back on track.”

That’s what does Pidge in—with determined steps, she slips away from the police powwow to hide behind the trunk of the huge oak tree in her front yard. She’s barely out of view of the others when the tears begin, spilling down her cheeks with abandon and pulling strangled, pathetic sobs from her chest. Once again, she wraps her arms around herself in a feeble attempt at achieving some semblance of security, but no matter how hard she squeezes, no matter how desperate she is to reign in the emotions overwhelming her in that moment, it doesn’t do any good. She slides down against the tree, barely noticing the way the jagged bark leaves crude lines across her back, and falls apart. She cries until she’s coughing, gagging, retching into the grass, unable to pull in enough ragged breaths to keep her from getting dizzy. Her ears are clogged, ringing, echoing with the sounds of her anguish, and she thinks that this is the closest she’s ever felt to dying.

How is it that Shiro can still be so selfless? What, if not this, is it going to take before he realizes that Pidge comes with too much baggage to be worth keeping around? And what’s going to happen to her when that day comes? What of her mother, of the woman who raised Pidge from the moment she was born, and loved her even before that? Is this what’s become of her, burned away into the shell of a woman Pidge has been forced to leave behind in favor of her own safety? Has the mother she’s always known been lost to the booze-corrupted shadow still shrieking within the walls of her childhood home? Pidge’s mind swirls with questions, toxic what-ifs and fragmented memories that lodge themselves in her heart, piercing, poisoning. What is she supposed to do? What does she have to do to make the chaos settle, to go back to how things used to be?

A pair of arms that aren’t hers wrap around Pidge, then, and though they don’t do much better of a job at calming her than her own do, Pidge turns into them, recognizes Lance’s gentle warmth even without opening her eyes. She cries into his chest the way her pride won’t let her do in front of Shiro—broken, raw and grief-stricken. It’s pure, unadulterated misery, despair the likes of which she hasn’t experienced since the night of Matt’s passing. She sat with Lance like this then, too, took comfort in the way he rubbed her back and rocked with her the same way he does now.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. But it isn’t. It hasn’t been in months, and she tells him so through piteous, heart-rending sobs.

Lance is quiet for a moment, though the strong embrace enveloping Pidge never loosens. His fingertips dance thoughtfully against her shoulderblade. “Maybe,” he breathes eventually, and rests his forehead against Pidge’s hair. “But sometimes things have to get worse before they can start to get better.” When he gets no reply save a pitiful hiccup, he continues. “That’s not to say it isn’t alright to cry about the bad things. Crying is therapeutic, anyhow—at least, that’s what my mom says.”

Off to the side, there’s a slight commotion as the EMTs walk a dazed-looking Colleen out of the house and toward the ambulance. She looks exhausted, but when she catches sight of the two of them beneath the oak tree, she struggles briefly in a moment of lucidity and reaches out a hand that Lance doesn’t let Pidge see.

“Katie! Katie, don’t let them take me!”

“Sometimes crying is all we can do,” Lance murmurs, shifting ever so slightly to block Colleen from view. “A lot of the time, it’s the only way we have of getting rid of all those shitty thoughts. It’s cleansing, you know? In a way that nothing else is. And afterward, when we’re all out of tears, we can stand up tall—”

“Katie!”

“—and acknowledge that even though life is tough—”

_“Katie!!”_

_“—we’re a hell of a lot tougher.”_

The only sound that follows is that of the ambulance pulling away from the Holt residence, rubber tires on battered asphalt. Pidge leans heavily against Lance, letting a long, slow breath ease itself from her lungs. When she finally lifts her head, it’s just in time to see a familiar black nose peek out from behind the half-open front door, followed by paws and a wagging tail. The dog bounds down the porch steps and over to Pidge, who can’t help the giggle that escapes as he places his forepaws in her lap and begins to lick her chin. His earlier concern already forgotten, he knows nothing of the agonies of the human world, and Pidge does not pity him for it.

Her laughter feels out of place, especially as the gray clouds above open up and a steady drizzle begins to fall, soaking the three of them even through the canopy of leaves over their heads.

Even so, it’s a tiny victory, and Pidge needs it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a small eternity, the feels train keeps a-rollin'. For anyone interested in why this chapter took me seven months to finish and post, you can find a full explanation [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZUcpVmEHuk)  
> As usual, feel free to yell at me for torturing the Voltron characters on Tumblr @Teravoltron.

It comes as a surprise to absolutely no one that Blackie is not at all fond of dogs. He takes approximately one look at his new housemate, hisses, and flees down the hallway, scooting along with his belly low to the ground. Blackie’s reaction earns him a weak laugh from Pidge, and an outright chuckle from Shiro.

“Don’t worry, he’ll get used to having a buddy around soon enough,” Shiro remarks dismissively, glancing down at the dog and his obliviously-wagging tail. Pidge wonders if the statement might be more significant than Shiro lets on. “What’d you say his name was, again?”

“Tesla,” Pidge answers, then goes back to chewing awkwardly at her lower lip. With Colleen gone and no one around to look after the dog, Shiro had taken it upon himself to ask the police for permission to take Tesla in. They’d seen no problem with it, being that he was technically Pidge’s dog anyway and it meant keeping the pooch out of the pound.

“Is there some kind of story behind that?” Shiro eyes Tesla, who has begun a thorough sniff-based exploration of his new surroundings. “No offense—it just seems like kind of an odd name for a dog.”

Pidge nods as she kicks off her sneakers. “His name used to be Gunther. We left it as a sort of placeholder name—just to have something to call him until we thought of something better. But my family sucked at picking pet names, so it wound up sticking around for a while. Then, like a month after we adopted him, Matt proposed we change his name to Tesla in celebration of the fact that he hadn’t managed to kill himself by chewing on electrical cables. It was his favorite pastime, and we couldn’t get him to stop no matter what we tried. Phone chargers, lamp cords, even the eighty-dollar power supply for Matt’s laptop. Chewed right through them while they were plugged in and didn’t get shocked once. I dunno how he even managed it.”

Shiro covers his mouth with one hand in a poor attempt at hiding a snicker. “Oh my god.” Even when he lowers his hand, he’s grinning. “That’s so creative. Sounds like I need to think of something more original than ‘Blackie.’”

“ACE, maybe. Asshole Cat Extraordinaire.”

“Your contribution will be considered,” Shiro snorts. He makes his way into the kitchen, and when the first thing he grabs off the counter is a bottle of Advil, shame claws its way back up Pidge’s throat from the pit of her stomach like a drowning rodent hellbent on escape.

“Is your head okay?” she asks in a small voice, and Shiro’s unfailingly benevolent smile does little by way of soothing her guilt.

“It’s fine,” he promises. “The EMTs said it probably won’t even scar. But if it does I can make up some badass story about fighting off a band of pirates or a pack of ninjas.”

Pidge isn’t sure whether to wince or laugh. What she does manage is a pained half-and-half chuckle-grimace that she probably couldn’t replicate later if she tried. “I don’t think ninjas travel in packs,” she says dryly. “That’s kind of what makes them ninjas.”

“You’ve obviously never watched Naruto,” Shiro accuses, then winks.

Pidge is living with a man-child.

The rest of the evening is spent getting Tesla settled into his new home. Pidge sets up his bed, food and toys in the corner of her room, a development that Tesla himself seems fine with. He scarfs down his evening meal with voracious enthusiasm, bringing to mind the bareness of Tesla’s food dish upon retrieving it from the house. Pidge wonders, a guilty tangle of thorns weaving their way into her heart, if her mother was even feeding him every day.

Shiro orders Chinese takeout for dinner, and a false sense of normalcy takes over as they eat in front of the TV. Pidge becomes startlingly aware of the surreality of the day’s events halfway through an episode of Friends, and finds herself staring, open-mouthed, at the spring roll in her hand. When Shiro takes notice, he frowns down at his own food.

“Is something wrong? Pidge? Hey...” He waves a hand in front of Pidge’s nose. She tenses for a split second before looking up at him and letting out a gusty sigh.

“Sorry.”

The corner of Shiro’s mouth quirks into a half-smile. “What ‘s on your mind, huh?”

Pidge abandons her plate altogether and shakes her head, lost. “It just. It doesn’t feel real, you know? Any of it. It feels like everything that happened today was just some kind of hallucination or something out of a weird fever dream. And when I look back on it, it’s like I’m watching it on a movie screen or through someone else’s eyes.”

When Pidge looks up at Shiro, he’s nodding. “I think I know what you mean,” he murmurs. “Everything happened so quickly that there wasn’t enough time to process it. It was all any of us could do just to keep up in the moment.” He takes a deep breath. “That sort of thing... it really shocks your system.” Shiro falls quiet, like he’s thinking hard about something. But the longer Pidge watches, the more it seems as though whatever subject has pushed itself to the forefront of Shiro’s mind, he’s actively trying to avoid giving it the attention it wants. For a few long seconds, emotions war in his eyes, and though his facial expression remains neutral, it’s obvious that he’s struggling.

And then, as suddenly as it begins, it’s over. Shiro stands up, the movement jarring in comparison to the eerie stillness that had settled over him only a moment before, and heads for the kitchen. Pidge listens to the clang of dishes that comes with the opening and closing of a nearly-full dishwasher, and when the discordant, jumbled sounds cease, Shiro reappears with a smile on his face.

“The important thing to remember,” he says, and begins to clear takeout boxes off of the ottoman they’ve been using as a coffee table. “Is that when it finally does start to sink in, try not to let everything hit you all at once. Otherwise you’ll wind up getting overwhelmed, and that’s never fun.”

Hands full of cartons and styrofoam sauce containers, Shiro returns to the kitchen.

Left, for the moment, to her own devices, Pidge wonders what sort of experience he speaks from.

She doesn’t have all that long to dwell on it. A full belly on top of the day’s events works wonders at exhausting Pidge, who barely manages to send one final thank-you text to Lance before her head hits the pillow and darkness swallows her up for the night. She’s thankful for the instantaneity of it, and she sleeps soundly, uninterrupted even by dreams.

-

Allura is meant to arrive home around 3:30 the following afternoon, and Shiro spends the majority of the morning cleaning the apartment in preparation for her arrival. Truthfully, it isn’t really ‘cleaning’ he’s doing, so much as it is making paranoid, shuffling laps around their entire living space, methodically hopping from room to room to make sure that since the last time he was in each one, something hasn’t magically moved out of place. Pidge has to assure him on several occasions that the place looks fine, is in perfectly acceptable condition and that Shiro has done quite a decent job maintaining the relatively un-dumpsterlike state of the apartment since Pidge went on her cleaning spree.

Tesla is, mournfully, locked in Pidge’s room for the time being—a precaution necessitated by his tendency to tackle anyone who walks through a door. His intentions may be wholesome, but both Shiro and Pidge have agreed that the first thing Allura experiences upon her return should not be a faceful of wet kisses from an overexcited bull terrier.

At around quarter-to-one, Shiro grabs his keys and wallet from the dining room table and turns to Pidge, who is partially absorbed in registering for the semester’s classes and doesn’t look up until Shiro calls her name.

“I’m going to make a quick run to the store, pick up some stuff for dinner tonight,” he says as he stuffs his feet haphazardly into his sneakers. “You want anything while I’m out?”

Pidge considers the question. “Maybe a pack of those grossly-unhealthy peanut butter cookies?” she suggests hopefully, then gestures to the computer. “You know, lest the stress of adulting actually end my life.”

Shiro gives her what he tries his best to make a doubtful look, brows furrowed to conceal the smirk that manages to show through anyway. “Take it from me, an adultier adult intensely familiar with the difficulties of adulting—peanut butter cookies are not going to keep the stress of college from killing you. It will find a way.”

“Maybe,” Pidge acquiesces, regarding Shiro over the rim of her glasses. “But they’ll make the time I have left suck a little less.”

That earns her a laugh—one of Shiro’s signature, deep belly-laughs that Pidge has come to count on as a staple in maintaining her sanity. “Peanut butter cookies it is, then,” Shiro relents, and Pidge adopts a sage facial expression.

“Your kindness shan’t be forgotten.”

With a sarcastic wave and an impressive roll of his eyes, Shiro picks the apartment’s door key from his keyring and heads out.

“And you are so _not_ adultier than me!” Pidge calls indignantly toward the closing gap in the door. “Mister ‘I Collect Takeout Boxes Like Baseball Cards!’” The door clicks shut with finality, and Pidge sulks, scowling at her own reflection in her laptop monitor. “The nerve.”

The sentiment, however, fails to carry over when, fifteen minutes later, Pidge is internally screaming at the intricacies of student loans, government aid and the general absurdities of pursuing a higher education. She is not an adult, she decides. No, she is an actual child—a tiny infant-toddler-baby who does not know her way around money or the American education system and definitely needs help figuring all of this out because no matter how many paragraphs she reads about interest rates and subsidized whatevers, none of it is making a damn bit of sense.

It was so different a year ago, Pidge recalls miserably, when she had the patient guidance of her family at her fingertips—an entire support system to talk her through what she didn’t understand, to clarify and advise and reassure her that everything was going to be fine. But that comfortable backing is gone now. Pidge is on her own, and things are definitely not fine.

She’s just made the decision to ask Shiro for help (despite doing so necessitating her admission that he is, in fact, adultier than she is) when the sound of the front door opening draws her attention from pages of meaningless financial gibberish. “That was quick,” she remarks. “Didn’t know Competitive Speed Shopping was an Olympic sport these da—”

Pidge cuts herself off upon the belated realization that it isn’t Shiro she’s talking to, but a young woman that Pidge recognizes only from the photos hanging on the wall in Shiro’s hallway. She’s well-dressed and professional-looking with her silver-rimmed glasses and the way her natural curls are tied neatly into a bun; if Pidge had to make a comparison, it would be an impressive combination of a Disney princess and a staunch businesswoman.

Allura wears a suit jacket and a profoundly confused expression. It’s a look that Pidge is utterly useless in alleviating, she herself frozen halfway between shock and absolute panic. This is bad—Allura is two-and-a-half hours early, Shiro is nowhere to be seen, and Pidge is Completely Unprepared™ to face this total stranger, whose residence she has been borrowing on equally-borrowed permission, alone.

Time slows to a crawl. Allura glances down at her keyring, then at the doorknob. Pidge can practically hear the gears turning inside her head, trying to work out how it could be possible for her key to open the door to somebody else’s apartment.

“Um. Hi.” Pidge bites the bullet, and when Allura’s head snaps back up, she awkwardly chews on it for several agonizing seconds. “You must be Allura—Shiro will be back soon.” I hope, she adds silently, alongside a desperate prayer that things aren’t about to go horribly wrong.

“Pardon me, but who are you?” Allura asks. Pidge is about to tell her that she doesn’t need to be pardoned in her own apartment, but Allura seems to catch onto that herself with little prompting. In the next instant, she’s adjusted her body language accordingly by standing up straighter and crossing her arms. Her brow is furrowed in obvious displeasure the demand for an answer.

“My name’s Pidg—Katie,” Pidge corrects, an attempt at matching the formality that Allura’s newly-intimidating presence commands. “I’m just one of Shiro’s friends.” She winces at her own phrasing, the way the word _just_ makes it sound like she’s trying to dispel any concern Allura might have that Pidge and Shiro could potentially be more than friends and, in doing so, likely validates that concern even further. Pidge tries to convince herself that her anxious imagination is running wild with unlikely possibilities, but the disapproval in Allura’s eyes leaves little room for doubt.

“Is that so,” Allura replies, lips pressing into a line of thinly-veiled irritation.

Pidge knows she needs to choose her next words carefully, but she doesn’t get a chance.

Tesla, having caught on to the presence of another human being with hands capable of petting him, suddenly begins going nuts from his bedroom prison. His excited barks and howls echo through the otherwise-silent apartment, accented by the frantic scraping of doggy toenails on the inside of the door that separates him from his audience. The noise startles Blackie, who has just slunk out to survey the situation at hand, into scooting right back down the hallway.

Allura’s eyes have gone wide—first with surprise, then a mixture of panic and anger. “What on earth is a dog doing in here?!” she snaps, and Pidge’s tightly-held breath burns like a flame in her chest as Allura takes off toward the bedroom door. “You can’t have a dog here! We’ve already got Blackie on our lease—if management sees an unauthorized pet, they’ll have a fit!” The second Allura opens the door to the guest room, Tesla forcibly shoves himself through the gap and bolts into the living room in a flurry of barks, whines and tail wags. Seemingly unaware that he’s bypassed the new face he’s so eager to lick, it takes him a few seconds to circle back and zone in on Allura, a brief window of opportunity in which Pidge makes an honest effort to grab and subdue him. She’s a second too late with her lunge, fingers grazing his collar but failing to latch on as Tesla launches all 75 pounds of himself straight at Allura.

Crap.

“Tesla! Treat!” Pidge shouts, scrambling to her feet and holding up a closed fist in a last-ditch effort to dissuade the dog from getting them both kicked out before Shiro even returns from his grocery run. By some miracle, it works, Tesla coming to an abrupt standstill between Pidge and Allura and whining as he deliberates on whether to take the bait or go through with his original plan.

Pidge shoots Allura a look that simultaneously warns and begs her not to move or speak. Unfortunately, Allura doesn’t get the message. Instead, she crosses her arms and rewards Pidge’s desperation with a cold stare. “You need to get that dog out of here immediately.” Thankfully, by that point Pidge has managed to snag Tesla’s slip-knot lead from its spot next to the front door, and all it takes to secure him is a bit of careful maneuvering to toss the loop over his head.

With the Overexcited Canine Crisis averted, Pidge allows her shoulders to sag with relief. “Jeez...”

Allura doesn’t appear to share in her sense of victory. “Are you listening? Get that dog out of here before it becomes even more of a problem than it already is! This place’s pet deposit is per animal, and just having that thing in the building is a violation of our lease!”

“His name is Tesla,” Pidge offers tiredly, more as a courtesy than a rebuke. She wishes she had both hands available to rub at her temples, but guesses one will have to do unless she wants to unleash Furry Armageddon on Allura, whose mood is already less than ideal. “And you don’t have to worry about any of that. Shiro paid the pet deposit the day I brought him here.”

That, without context, is the absolute wrong thing to say.

Allura eyes are gas-soaked kindling, and Pidge’s words the implicit spark that sets them alight with deadly assumption. Pidge can almost hear each thought click into place like puzzle pieces inside Allura’s head, warped and damaged by misunderstanding, and the final picture reflected back at Pidge in that frigid gaze is distorted to the point of being grotesque. Pidge wants nothing more in that moment than to speak up, to interrupt the formation of Allura’s dangerously-incorrect reality with some form of reassurance, but her words catch in her throat and stay there, stubborn and unmovable.

Pidge doesn’t hear the door open, but Allura does, and following the turn of her head reveals a very surprised Shiro with two armfuls of groceries. In the stunned silence that follows, Shiro’s expression phases through at least seven different emotions in as many seconds. Tesla, unable to read the room and eager for pets, tugs at his lead.

“Allura!” Shiro’s ill-preparation for the scenario at hand shows in the sweat that breaks out on the back of his neck at the realization that he’s just unwittingly stepped onto a metaphorical minefield in nothing but his underwear and a pair of Crocs. “You’re home early. Like. Really early.”

Allura crosses her arms. “Yes. I wanted to surprise you,” she replies tersely, then jerks her head toward Pidge. “Instead, I surprised her.”

Pidge opens her mouth to speak, but quickly clamps it shut again. In Allura’s current state, any proclamation of “I’m not the other woman” that Pidge could make would probably be misconstrued to the effect of “you are.”

Exasperated, Shiro abandons one bundle of groceries in favor of running a hand through his hair. Pidge admires the fact that, under the circumstances, he’s brave enough to even _be_ exasperated—especially when she can’t find it in herself to feel anything less than Highly Concerned™. “I had hoped to be here when you two met. For obvious reasons,” Shiro says around a sigh, and Allura’s brow furrows as she appears to, for the first time, consider the possibility that she may actually have the wrong idea.

“What do you mean by that?” Though her tone is short, Allura regards Shiro with cautious curiosity.

“Pidge.” Instead of answering right away, Shiro catches Pidge’s attention and nods toward the door.

“Uh. R-right.” Message received, Pidge tightens her grip on Tesla’s leash. “I’m gonna just. Take Tesla on a walk. I’ll be back. Later.” She’s minutely aware of how clipped and disjointed her sentences are, barely able to force themselves past her lips, but she doesn’t stop to check whether or not it’s something Allura and Shiro have picked up on as well. She makes for the front door, murmuring a wordless sound of pardon as Shiro steps to the side to let her through. When the door clicks shut behind Pidge, every ounce of strength leaves her body at once, and she sinks into a sitting position on the wooden landing as her legs turn to jelly beneath her. Tesla wags his tail and licks her knees.

“Sorry, buddy,” Pidge breathes, and takes comfort in the repetitive motion of stroking Tesla’s back. “Walkies will have to wait a sec.”

As Pidge leans back against the closed door, she can hear the conversation taking place on the other side of it over the gentle lap of Tesla’s tongue. Part of her doesn’t want to know what’s being said, but morbid curiosity glues her to that landing, holds her ear to the door with a force stronger than any willpower or common sense Pidge could ever hope to conjure from within.

-

“You need to tell me what’s going on,” Allura demands, arms still crossed and fingers drumming an irritated rhythm against her forearm. “Now. Who is that girl and why does it look like she’s made herself a permanent resident of _our_ home?”

Quiet, Shiro takes a moment to sort out his thoughts and try to figure out exactly how things went so wrong so quickly. He can’t come up with an answer for himself, but he becomes acutely aware of the fact that he needs to come up with one for Allura when she clears her throat prompts him with an agitated “Well?”

When Shiro finally speaks, his tone is measured and matter-of-fact. “She had nowhere else to go.”

“What is that supposed to mean, Shiro?” Allura groans. “She had nowhere else to go—so—so what, you rented out our apartment to a homeless girl? Without bothering to call me, ask for my input, anything? Did it even cross your mind that I wouldn’t be okay with a total stranger sleeping under our roof, let alone when I’m not even home? What if she’s on something or—or running from someone? Did you even stop to consider—”

“She isn’t like that,” Shiro interrupts, and his expression hardens. “And she isn’t homeless or some junkie, Allura—she’s just had a really tough couple of months. Her home isn’t safe for her to go back to. If you had any idea what she’s been through—”

“If I knew what she’s been through I might be sympathetic,” Allura snaps, “but that doesn’t mean I’d be okay with her staying in my apartment, with my boyfriend, while I’m away on business! She’s not some stray cat, Shiro, she’s a real person!”

“That’s all the more reason to help, then,” Shiro insists, annoyance making itself apparent in the sharpness of his words. “What did you want me to do, pretend I didn’t see anything? Let her go home to an abusive household with a violent, alcoholic and mentally unhinged mother who could snap at any second and throw something at her?” Shiro points to the still-fresh wound across his forehead for emphasis. “She wasn’t safe, Allura—I wasn’t about to just leave her to fend for herself in her own personal hell. I was the only one there that night; I was the only one who could save her!”

Allura goes still, silent, and Shiro’s words echo off the apartment’s inner walls to hang in the air like a winter chill.

“So that’s what this is about,” Allura finally murmurs, and the bite is gone from her voice, replaced by an innate sadness. “Baby...”

“Don’t patronize me, Allura,” Shiro warns. “I’m not one of your patients and you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No.” Allura shakes her head. “I don’t know that, Shiro. Listen to me—you can’t save everyone. You just can’t. It’s not your responsibility—do you understand that? You aren’t responsible for every less-fortunate soul you happen across, and you can’t keep carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders when it isn’t even yours to bear.”

“It’s my weight if I make it mine,” Shiro refutes stubbornly. “If I can make a difference, even a little—”

“The way you couldn’t for that boy?” Allura challenges.

“That isn’t fair.”

Allura averts her gaze, fingers still tapping ceaselessly against her arm. The pace of it is more anxious than irate now, and Allura’s face is pinched with emotion. “You can’t spend your entire life trying to atone, Shiro. It isn’t healthy. I need you to understand that. It’s time for you to come to terms with things and move on. For your own sake, I need you to start living life in the present instead of trapping yourself in the past. Because if you don’t, there’s absolutely no way for us both to look toward the future.”

“It isn’t that easy.”

“Why isn’t it, Shiro?” Allura pleads. “Don’t you want to be happy? Don’t you want to be able to look forward to what’s ahead without this dark cloud looming over you every second of every day?” When Shiro doesn’t respond, Allura keeps going, her voice rising steadily as frustration replaces reason bit by hapless bit. “I know that grief is hard to let go of, but when you start to let it affect your personal relationships, then grief isn’t the problem anymore! You are!”

Shiro lets her shout, his gaze fixed, unwavering, on a specific section of the carpet to Allura’s right. He wishes he could lose himself in the maze of those fibers. When Allura quiets, presumably in wait of a response, Shiro clenches and unclenches his fists. Excruciatingly aware of how sweaty his palms are, he can feel the crescent marks his nails have dug into them and vaguely wonders how much of the moisture there is actually blood. When he opens his mouth to speak, no sound comes out.

After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, Allura speaks again, accusatory.

“Are you sleeping with her?”

It could be an honest question or an attempt to goad him into saying something. Shiro doesn’t know which, and in the midst of the individual eternities ticking by inside his head, he realizes that he doesn’t care.

“You know I’m not.”

Allura doesn’t appear to have a response for that. More seconds pass, an endless supply of them that Shiro loses count of twice before he breaks the quiet.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” he says, just barely loud enough to not be considered a mumble. “But you can’t make me regret helping her. I’m doing what I believe in my heart is the right thing. I signed up for this.”

“I didn’t.”

When Shiro lifts his gaze from the carpeting, he finds that Allura is staring at him with unmistakable sorrow in her eyes, accented rather than masked by the tiny smile she wears alongside it. She shifts on her feet, something sluggish and tired about the way she moves. Her body language speaks volumes as to her defeat.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” she elaborates, her tone as soft and sad as her expression. “I didn’t sign up to watch you self-destruct and I didn’t sign up to share my apartment with some girl you’re using as part of your quest for forgiveness. I can’t, Shiro. I’m sorry.”

Allura doesn’t wait for a reply. She makes her way to the door in what seems like slow motion, and Shiro can’t tell if Allura is as exhausted as he feels or if his tired mind has given up on perceiving things with the level of precision indicative of normalcy.

There exists a part of Shiro’s brain that is so profoundly terrified of solitude that the idea of watching Allura walk away is crippling. It screams at him to do something—anything with the potential to prevent Shiro from plunging himself headlong into a future without Allura.

He doesn’t.

The door opens, then closes.

Shiro is alone.

-

“Are you sleeping with her?”

That is the moment when Pidge stops listening. She wrenches herself away from the door and scrambles to her feet, suddenly beyond desperate to put as much distance between herself and the apartment as possible. Reeling, she keeps one hand on the wooden bannister and leads Tesla down the stairs, around to the grassy slope that feeds down into the pond. With her back to the stairs and the conversation, Pidge keeps a white-knuckled grip on Tesla’s leash and lets him run while she makes use of a breathing exercise Lance taught her. Inhale for four seconds, hold for seven, then exhale through the mouth for eight. Rinse and repeat. Four, seven, eight. Four, seven, eight.

Four.

Seven—

From above comes the distinct open and shut of a door. Pidge doesn’t move, instead keeping her line of sight focused deliberately on Tesla as he romps through the grass. Even so, the muted tapping of heeled footsteps on wooden stairs is unmistakable, followed by a staccato click as they transfer to concrete and fade into nothingness. A car door slams, an engine roars to life, and tires squeal emotionally against the unforgiving asphalt, leaving Pidge behind to coordinate her exhale with the imagined rhythm of the pond’s trickling fountain.

She stays there for what feels like hours, a stone gargoyle with a twisted snarl carved upon her heart. The late-summer breezes do not move her, nor could a hurricane blown through by happenstance. Rooted there in the grass by anxiety alone, all she can do is wait for the vines around her ankles to wither and die.

Four. Seven. Eight.

Four. Seven. Eight.

Pidge’s body feels ancient, like a relic worn by time and wind and rain. But if that’s the case, she decides, then without a doubt, she is cursed.

Four. Seven. Eight.

Four. Seven. Eight.

The screech of rubber tires echoes in Pidge’s head, drowns any and every coherent thought she can dig up in its shrill and all-encompassing voice. Therein lies a diatribe of cruelties that Pidge hasn’t a hope of blocking out, an onslaught the likes of which originates deep within her chest.

Four. Seven. Eight.

But she hasn’t the time for self-loathing. Pidge knows that.

Four.

Above her is someone who has given up quite literally everything with her in mind. Someone who has selflessly fought for her again and again, pulled her from the depths of sorrow when she was drowning and kept her afloat despite the cinder blocks tied to her ankles.

Seven.

It’s her turn, now, Pidge asserts. Anguish comes for everyone, indiscriminate and hungry. Pidge knows what it’s like to be swallowed up by it, lost within a wall of smothering black clouds with no discernable way out. To be alone within that maze is torment, and she isn’t about to leave Shiro to fight his way to freedom alone.

Eight.

Pidge lifts her feet from the ground. “Tesla, come,” she calls, and though her voice comes out as a croak, there’s determination behind it nonetheless. Tesla, blessedly oblivious, returns to her side at a trot that he maintains all the way up the stairs leading back to the apartment.

Shiro stands at the top, leaning heavily against the wooden balcony. Lit cigarette in hand, he gazes out over the pond below at a reflection that’s too far away to see. There’s no telling what he finds there, but Pidge recognizes the barely-masked pain that’s settled behind his eyes.

No, she thinks as she opens the apartment door to let Tesla inside. It’s always been there. Pidge has seen it more than once, lying in wait behind that cheerful exterior for an opportunity to force its way through. Wisdom, Pidge knows, does not come without experience. So what sort of heartbreak must one have endured to have become an expert on the subject of misery?

Pidge leaves the silence alone as she sidles up next to Shiro, folds her arms atop the wooden crossbeam of the balcony and rests her chin there. For an untold amount of time, they stand in solidarity, two stone monuments coexisting within a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Wanna talk about it?” Pidge asks at the exact same time that Shiro says, “I know you were listening.” They share a mirthless chuckle, and Pidge lifts her gaze skyward to focus on lazily-drifting afternoon clouds. “Am I that predictable?”

Shiro’s exhale produces another cloud, fated to disperse before it ever reaches the ranks above. “You must have a lot of questions,” he murmurs in lieu of an answer. Irony at its finest, Pidge thinks, and a smile tugs at her lips. “You can ask them, you know. I don’t have anything to hide.”

“I wouldn’t say I have a lot,” Pidge disagrees. Neither of them has turned to face the other—it somehow makes the conversation more bearable. “Just two.”

“Alright,” Shiro acquiesces. “Question one.”

“Are you okay?”

The simplicity of it catches Shiro off guard. Pidge glimpses his surprise in her periphery, but keeps her own gaze focused resolutely ahead. Shiro takes a long drag from his cigarette.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

It sounds like a lie, and it draws Pidge’s attention from above. She eyes Shiro doubtfully, and he chuckles when he takes notice. “You don’t believe me.”

“I want to, if it’s any consolation,” Pidge offers.

“But?”

“I know better.”

A somber smile finds its way around Shiro’s cigarette. “Guess you of all people would, huh,” he concedes, and surprises Pidge by reaching out a powerful hand to mess her hair. The simple gesture brings tears to Pidge’s eyes all over again, indifferent to her desperation to hold herself together for Shiro’s sake.

“I’m sorry,” she says bitterly, voice straining around the newly-formed lump in her throat. Her guilt only grows, a whorling storm rampaging through her chest, when Shiro begins to pet her hair. Pidge’s fists clench. It should be her comforting Shiro, not the other way around.

“Why’s that?” Shiro asks thoughtfully.

Pidge struggles with her reply for a solid minute before frustration takes over. “All of this is because of me!” she blurts, standing up straight and scrubbing the sleeve of her jacket aggressively over her eyes. “Everything is falling apart because you decided to take me in!”

Shiro is unfazed by her outburst. In fact, he’s smiling, amusement shining behind his eyes. “Say that again.”

Both perplexed and miserable, Pidge can think of no response but to obey. “Everything is falling apart because you decided—”

“That’s right,” Shiro interrupts. “It was my decision, Pidge. In fact, you told me ‘no’ at first, didn’t you? And I wouldn’t accept it.” Shiro drops the butt of his cigarette onto the landing and crushes it beneath the heel of his sneaker. “There are consequences to every decision, good and bad. That’s just the way the world works. You heard me tell Allura, didn’t you? Nothing could make me regret what’s led up to this point. Nothing could make me regret what’s gotten us here, even if ‘here’ isn’t... ideal.”

Pidge, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, isn’t entirely satisfied with that answer. She opens her mouth to protest, but Shiro beats her to it once again.

“Do you know why I didn’t call Allura about bringing you here?”

An abundance of different answers come to mind, most of them insults to the degree of common sense which Shiro possesses. Pidge voices none of them, instead solemnly shaking her head.

“Because no matter what she had said, it wouldn’t have changed my mind.”

“ _Why?_ ” The word is out before Pidge can stop it. “That doesn’t make any sense, Shiro! You care about her, right? What she says should matter to you!”

“It does,” Shiro agrees calmly. “And I do. But I also care about you. You aren’t looking at the big picture, Pidge—sometimes a person has to stand up for what they believe in, even when it gets them into trouble. In situations like this, there is no hundred-percent, no answer or solution that is completely right. The only thing you can do is trust your gut, your morals and yourself. That’s the only way to live a life you can be proud of, free of regret.”

As Pidge listens, Shiro lights another cigarette. “Allura isn’t a bad person,” he murmurs, and tucks his lighter back into his pocket. “Her concerns and her frustrations, to her, are valid. They would be to most people, really. When people are upset, they say things they don’t mean. They also say things they do mean—wholeheartedly and without a doubt—that they wouldn’t say under normal circumstances. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which. Allura has done a lot for me in the past. She’s gotten me through some of the darkest times in my life. She’s been my rock, grounded me when I needed it and kept me afloat when I was in danger of drowning. To her, it must seem like I’ve thrown all of that away.” Shiro falls silent for a moment, lost in thought. Then, “Did I ever mention that she’s a therapist?”

Pidge thinks back, shakes her head. “Only that she was in the medical field. That’s what her conference was about, right?”

Shiro nods. “Mind medicine. She’s brilliant, really—has this knack for psychology that makes her the envy of her office. The only problem is that she knows exactly how incredible she is, and sometimes it goes to her head.”

“Go on,” encourages Pidge, intrigued by the insight.

“In Allura’s head,” Shiro continues, “everything has a cure. She gets frustrated with difficult cases, feels that after a certain amount of time, things like anxiety, depression and emotional trauma are no longer valid states of mind.” He pauses, brow furrowing. “That isn’t the best way of putting it, I guess, but it’s the only way I know how. She just refuses to accept that not everything can be ‘fixed.’”

Pidge closes her eyes. When she does, distant echoes of Shiro and Allura’s argument on the other side of the door fill her head, bouncing frenetically about in the darkness behind her lids.

“She said... that you’re trying to atone,” Pidge whispers, barely loud enough to be heard. “Something about a boy. What did she mean?”

“Is that your second question?” Gone is any hint of a smile from Shiro’s voice, and though Pidge doesn’t open her eyes, she can visualize within Shiro’s a profound exhaustion that comes with having dealt with one’s own misery for far too long.

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows hangs heavily around them like early-morning mist. Even so, Pidge doesn’t push, doesn’t look to Shiro in askance or even check to make certain she’s been heard. A part of Pidge knows, already, that she has—and another yet knows that whatever Shiro’s story is, he likely hasn’t spoken of it in a very long time.

In a moment of remembrance, she returns to a sticky table in the middle of an IHOP at midnight, warm evening lighting above and a clock monotonously ticking its piece from somewhere to her right. Her coffee is lukewarm and too sweet, but it and the kind smile of a stranger do wonders at soothing a heart too broken to heal, yet too strong to die. In that moment, Pidge is not alone. She’s poured out her every anguish, a merciless torrent of struggles and tears that’s left her weak and vulnerable, and for once, there’s someone waiting to catch her when she falls.

Now is no different, and the wordless vow that echoes in Pidge’s half-mended heart promises Shiro that she will do whatever it takes to return the favor.

There’s no telling how long it takes for Shiro’s words to find him. But nonetheless, they do.

“Two years ago,” he murmurs, and pulls his carton of cigarettes from his back pocket. “I was a volunteer firefighter for the city. I’d just finished grad school and needed something to do in my spare time so I didn’t go stir-crazy while I looked for work. Got certified and started responding to calls right away.

“You kind of build up an image of the job before you even start, but then it turns out to be nothing like you’d imagined. This is a small town, so there isn’t a whole lot that goes on, and even when something does crop up, it’s not usually over-the top-exciting. I got called to give a presentation at an elementary school once, and another time to unclog an elderly woman’s drain. I rescued my fair share of cats from trees. It’s kind of funny how much the definition of ‘emergency’ varies from person to person.” Shiro fidgets with the carton of cigarettes, pulls one from within and stares numbly at it.

“But every so often, there’d be something big. Something real. You’d think that as much training as they put you through, you’d be prepared for that day to come. Maybe some people are. I wasn’t. Seeing an entire apartment building up in flames, smoke so thick you can’t see the stars... I don’t think I’ll ever forget what that feels like. It’s overwhelming. Your first instinct is to call for help, but you _are_ the help. And the weight of knowing that it’s up to you to salvage as much as you can, to put the lives of the endangered before your own willingly and without hesitation—it hits you all at once.”

Shiro lights the cigarette in his hand, and Pidge doesn’t miss the anxious tremble of his fingers as he does. It might be her imagination, but she could swear that Shiro’s gaze lingers for a second too long on the dancing flame of the lighter before he tucks it away and takes a long drag from the cigarette.

“I felt like a superhero.” That same somber gaze is faraway now, lost in a memory that only Shiro can see. “They don’t tell you about it at first, but being a firefighter is more than showing up, fixing the problem and going on your way. A fire obliterates everything in its path—from an address to the physical and emotional security of a whole host of people. A lesser-known part of the job is being able to comfort someone who’s lost just short of everything, to explain that nothing they’ve left behind is as important as their life and the lives of their family. I’d play with crying children to distract them while my team tackled a blaze, dust off soot-covered cats and dogs that my colleagues carried out and reunite them with their owners. It felt like hand-delivering hope to people whose entire lives had just been turned upside down. I loved every second of what I did.”

Pidge can sense the unspoken, single-word concept that encompasses the entire story, traps it in a web and leeches the joy from the memories therein. It’s there in Shiro’s eyes, in the slump of his shoulders and the quiver of the cigarette between his fingers. It demands both their attention, unable even to fathom their denial of it, so powerful and persuasive that Pidge lends it her own voice:

“But...?”

The cigarette slowly burns down to almost nothing between Shiro’s fingers. He watches the fire consume it, no longer interested in its contents. “It was the middle of August, the hottest night of the year so far,” he tells Pidge, the words themselves weighted, burdened by the sight of the picture they paint for her. “I was a slow day, so we’d just been sitting around, chatting about what was going on in our lives. One of my coworkers had just found out his wife was pregnant. I’d just secured my interview at the clinic. It was almost midnight when we got the call.

“A single-residence house fire in a suburban area just at the edge of town. Even as quickly as we responded, the place was an inferno by the time we arrived on-scene. Just one big fireball in the center of this tiny, quiet neighborhood.

“There was a woman standing outside in her pajamas. I think the thing I remember most clearly about her is the way her tears made trails through the layer of soot on her face. She had two children with her, and she was hysterical. It didn’t take us long to figure out that there was supposed to be a third.”

Shiro pauses, draws in a ragged breath. “I volunteered.” The words come out in a near-whisper, the strength of Shiro’s voice stolen away by raw emotion. “I volunteered to go in, to find the little boy who hadn’t made it out. His mother told me his name was Simon. I wish she hadn’t.” He doesn’t mean to say that last part out loud.

“It was so hot. I don’t think I’d ever actually considered how hot fire was until that moment. Sounds stupid when you think about it, but I felt like I was roasting alive under my turnout gear.” Shiro chuckles weakly, but the sound trails off into nothingness. “I found him under his bed. He was so weak from the smoke that he wasn’t even crying anymore—just... wheezing. He couldn’t crawl out to meet me, so I had to move the bed to get to him.

“I don’t... remember a lot of what happened after that. The visibility in that house was near zero, and I was relying mostly on adrenaline to get me back to the exit. But I do remember talking to him, telling him everything was going to be okay. I remember how raw his voice was as he called out for his mother, and I remember promising that she was right outside, waiting for him. I remember...” Shiro pauses, and when Pidge looks up, the depth of suffering in Shiro’s eyes is enough to rival any ocean. “I remember when he stopped breathing...”

Pidge remembers, too. She remembers a headline, a breaking news story of a house fire with a single casualty. She remembers the smiling face of a five-year-old boy, a photograph memorialized on a screen for countless strangers to mourn in passing.

“They tried to get him back,” Shiro recalls, exhaustion evident in his voice. “But his airways were so irritated and swollen that they couldn’t even intubate him. He used his last breath to cry for his mother and then... he suffocated in my arms. There was nothing anyone could do. There was nothing I could do. It was my job, my responsibility to save him, and I... I couldn’t...” Shiro’s fists clench, crushing the burned-out cigarette in his hand to dust. Suddenly overcome, he draws back that trembling fist and hurls the ashes into the wind. “I promised! I promised him that he’d be okay! I promised his mother I’d bring him back safe and all I had to give her was the body of her dead son!”

Pidge has never seen Shiro so emotional. Her heart aches, going beyond sympathy pain to spread through her chest and become her body’s very own agony. Knowing that this is the heartbreak Shiro has been forced to manage not for weeks or months, but _years_ , makes Pidge want to cry out for him, to take his suffering and accept it on his behalf. Shiro is far too good a person to bear this burden, to be riddled with the memories of that night and be made to wonder each and every day what he could have done differently. It isn’t fair. None of it is, and Pidge has never loathed the hand of fate more than she does in that instant.

Pidge doesn’t actually make the decision to hug Shiro. It just happens that her arms find their way around his torso of their own volition, her fingers gripping at the fabric of the button-down he put on in preparation for Allura’s return. She clings to him like a baby koala might its mother, her only goal to provide some minute inkling of comfort, to lessen Shiro’s pain if only by a thousandth of its worth. The action must startle Shiro, because his hands hover, uncertain, over Pidge for a split second before finally settling into place—one on her back, the other in her hair. Pidge can feel the stutter of his breath where her cheek rests against his chest, the rapid beat of a heart struggling to cope.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Of that Pidge is utterly certain. It’s something she could scream from the rooftops, and would if it meant making Shiro believe her. “You did your job. You did your _best_ , Shiro—that’s all you could have done.”

When Shiro doesn’t respond, Pidge continues, fills the silence with the wisdom of a girl who knows what it’s like to be dealt an unfair hand. “Sometimes bad things happen to good people,” she whispers over the ragged breath that tells her Shiro is crying. She holds him tighter, a reassurance, a promise that he doesn’t have to suffer alone. “That doesn’t mean we deserve it, or that we did something wrong. You did everything you could. You risked your own safety—your own _life_ —to bring that little boy back to his mother. She held him one last time, didn’t she? Told him she loved him? Without you, she wouldn’t have had anything to say goodbye to, wouldn’t have had any closure. You said it yourself, right? Being a firefighter is more than just fighting fires—it’s bringing peace to someone who has lost everything. You were her peace that night.”

Shiro’s grip on Pidge tightens and his entire body shudders, wracked with sobs. Pidge doesn’t try to calm him, doesn’t tell him not to cry—she knows it isn’t that simple. But she stays, lets him hold her the way that someone should have held him two year ago, and her arms around his middle are better late than never.

“It’s just so hard to forgive myself,” Shiro whispers, unable to raise his voice any further for fear of it breaking. Already, it catches with emotion, the words difficult to force past the lump in his throat.

“You don’t need forgiveness,” Pidge replies sternly. “In order to be forgiven, you have to have done something wrong. You did everything right, Shiro—the fact that it wasn’t enough is circumstance’s fault, not yours. You have to understand that. A fire killed that little boy— _not you_.” Her own voice cracks, and Pidge swallows hard, calls forth authority in place of anguish. “Remember when you told me it wasn’t my dad’s fault Matt died? How even though their fight was the reason he left, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time? It’s the same damn thing, Shiro. I’ve seen what misplaced guilt can do—I was the one who found my father’s body. I’m not about to let the same thing happen to you.” Pidge is dimly aware of how hard she’s gripping Shiro, of the way his shirt wrinkles under her fingertips. She can’t help but feel as though if she lets go of him, he’ll disappear forever.

“Pidge...” Shiro, having just barely managed to reign in his distress, speaks softly, a note of surprise to his voice. “I never said anything about trying to—”

“ _Neither did he,_ ” Pidge grits out. “It just happened. Not a word to anyone. One day he was fine, the next his guilt was too much for him to live with. It wasn’t even his guilt to bear, and this isn’t yours.”

Shiro knows that Pidge is right. He knows that what she says comes from the sort of experience that nobody ought to have, especially not someone as young as she is. But she does, and Shiro is more certain than he’s ever been that the hand of fate, cruel by its own nature, suffered a moment of kindness in bringing them together.

“Don’t worry,” he tells Pidge, blinking away the remnants of his tears.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” counters Pidge, still without letting go. She sniffs, listens to the subtle sound of fabric against her face and hair. “I’ll stop worrying when I know you’re okay.”

“I am,” Shiro replies gently, and his hand on the back of her head makes it feel like a promise.

They stand there in silence that follows for a long while, until Pidge finally detaches herself from Shiro’s shirt and stands up straight. Shiro gives her shoulder a hearty pat, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you,” he says, genuine. Then, as an afterthought, “I don’t think anyone’s ever actually told me that it wasn’t my fault. At least, Allura never did. Only that I needed to stop dwelling on it.” He pulls his pack of cigarettes from his pocket again as he leans against the balcony, turning it over in his hands. “Looking back, I wonder what she wanted more—for me to stop blaming myself or for my blaming myself to stop being an inconvenience.” He sighs. “Guess it doesn’t matter now.”

Pidge mirrors his position against the balcony, and they’re back to where they were, each gazing out over the pond to contemplate to the tune of the trickling fountain. Pidge’s attention wanders, however, and eventually falls on the little box in Shiro’s hands.

“Did you start smoking after everything happened?” she asks, the question innocent enough.

Shiro nods, but doesn’t offer any further insight. At least, not until Pidge, quick as a lightning strike in a summer storm, snatches the cigarettes from his hand and chucks them over the balcony. They land on the concrete foundation below, bounce once, and come to a standstill. Shiro turns to Pidge, mouth agape.

“You don’t need them anymore,” Pidge informs him cheekily. There’s a smile on her face. “Giving them up signifies that you’re moving on from that part of your life. Starting a new chapter. Plus,” she adds, and the smile evolves into a full-blown grin. “You’ll live longer. Call me selfish, but I like having you around.”

Shiro glances between the discarded cigarettes and Pidge’s lopsided grin, and as the shock fades away, he begins to laugh. He laughs harder than he’s ever cried, and it’s refreshing, invigorating and liberating, all at the same time. Pidge laughs too, and the two of them are a sight to behold, cracking up on that wooden landing like there’s nothing in the world that could bring them down. When at last their mirth has expended itself and the two are left gasping, Shiro gazes down once again at the carton of cigarettes lying abandoned on the concrete below.

“You know you’re gonna have to pick that up, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that the Holts' dog is actually named Bae Bae (previously Gunther). I changed it in this fic because wanted the dog to be linked to a fond memory with Matt.


End file.
